The Fight Is In Your Blood
by outside the crayon box
Summary: President Coriolanus Snow is beginning to reach the end of his tether, Seneca Crane can no longer stomach the Capitol's injustice, and the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games just might be the undoing of them both. [SYOT Closed!]
1. Prologue I

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
.: Prologue I :.**

 _Sick, sad world._

Incensed, President Coriolanus Snow shook himself. He couldn't get those damn words out of his head, and it was driving him wild. What did he care about sick, or sad, or the world? He was all of those things, and he wasn't having problems.

But Seneca Crane had used that phrase in an impassioned speech two days ago, and Snow knew the bastard had meant it. The Head Gamemaker truly thought that the Hunger Games ( _his_ Hunger Games, the ones he had worked so hard to restore and revolutionize) were disgusting, _evil_. He'd fire Crane on the spot, if that wouldn't have inspired riots in the Capitol. Somehow, the guy had quite a following; thousands of people were insisting that he was the best Gamemaker since the first.

Snow rubbed his eyes, smearing thick white powder across his cheek. If he had anyone to pass the presidency down to, he would do it immediately. The entire business was too tiring, too complex, too much for a man who was quickly approaching eighty years old. It had been fun, back when he was twenty-five and Panem was his for the taking. But now, well, if there was yet another scene, he honestly wasn't sure whether he'd be able to handle it.

The answer was that he needed someone who could take over should he find it necessary. Yes, technically there would be a vote, but the majority of Capitol citizens were vapid and dull and would select any candidate who was shoved in their faces. And the best Victors, the ones who spent most of their time in the Capitol but were certainly not considered residents, would have no vote, so their intelligence couldn't screw with an important campaign.

He could choose a Gamemaker, such as Seneca Crane — holy shit, why was that man always on his mind? — but Snow truly didn't think he was trustworthy enough to continue the Hunger Games. What if Crane took it upon himself to end the pageant he obviously viewed as _barbaric_ and _a detriment to Panem's society_? (Yet more phrases he'd used in that _wonderful_ speech of his.)

The High Senate was always a possibility, but who among the Speakers would really make an adequate president? Nobody he could name, and he knew all of his most important advisers.

He fingered the rose in his lapel and sighed. Over the years, he had done so much to ensure that he was the only person who would ever be considered as the President of Panem, and he was beginning to regret it. He had completely forgotten that sometime along the line, he would need a successor.

The smart thing to do would be to call a meeting and listen to each and every Senator argue some sort of ridiculous point about the Games or the Districts or the imminent rebellion (for nobody with any sense could deny that one was approaching), then pick the most eloquent to serve as President. But he did not want to deal with that, especially not considering the upcoming Hunger Games. Just thinking about them caused his heart to beat faster, and not as a result of excitement. He was nervous: scared that he wouldn't be able to keep the tributes in line, _petrified_ that some idiot would spark a rebellion. More than anything, Snow hoped that the Districts' revolution could wait until after he was dead.

Finally, there was a sturdy knock on the door. The voice of Archa Range, Snow's personal Peacekeeper and the leader of all Presidential security forces, echoed throughout his spacious office.

"Presenting Mister Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker, Panem's First Class. Has this person been granted your permission to enter, President?"

Snow forced a smile and opened the door himself. "Yes, Archa, thank you. Come in, Seneca."

Crane bowed quickly, then straightened and lowered himself into a chair without waiting for the president's bidding. "I have the plans for this year's Games, sir."

At least now Snow had something to focus on other than his impending demise. "Let me see, then. Turn the projector on."

The other man nodded respectfully and clicked the remote. A hologram appeared, bright and glowing, on a metal table in the center of the room. It was a traditional arena, though the valleys dipped below water level and the mountains were absolutely enormous. Two lakes dotted either side — in both, there swam a squid weighing thirteen metric tons, dripping with poisonous ink and adorned with razor-sharp teeth — and a gushing river flowed between. Sparse plains made up the rest of the domain.

"The tributes will be here." Crane pointed to the middle of the projection. A large oak — the single tree in the arena — was the center of the pedestal circle. Scattered in perfect spirals were backpacks and small weapons: a bow with only two arrows here, a slingshot there, a nice pair of knives closer to the tree. Dangling from the oak's branches, tied with thick and loosely-knotted strands of thread, were the real supplies: fruits and swords and spears and jackets. The largest of these were so high that a tribute would need to climb to collect them. Those would be for the Careers; the others wouldn't have the time if they wanted to escape alive.

"Where is the Cornucopia?" the President questioned.

"We agreed unanimously not to have one this year, sir. It was too easy for the tributes from One, Two, Four, and whoever else joined their alliance to simply pack all their things away inside, then take casual turns sitting guard. The Cornucopia was open on one side only, so nobody could sneak up on it. It wasn't interesting, and it definitely wasn't fair."

Snow fought the powerful urge to roll his eyes. Why now, of all times, was Crane so obsessed with _fair_? "I'm sure the Capitol citizens will be distraught when they realize there is no Cornucopia."

Crane shrugged, looking supremely unconcerned. "With all due respect, they'll get over it."

"If you say so," Snow decided. What was it to him if the people turned against the Head Gamemaker? Maybe he'd finally have an excuse to just assassinate the damn guy. "Did you bring the list of tributes?"

"No," Crane declared. "And as a matter of fact, we won't be receiving one this year. We're not fixing it."

He gaped. "I won't tolerate this, Mr. Crane. We selected the boy from District Five months ago, right after his rebel parents were trapped in their burning house."

"And that is not enough punishment for a starving family, President? No, he will be safe unless he is randomly drawn. Panem knows the child must have the most tesserae slips in his District."

Under the desk, Snow clenched his right fist. "You may not _argue_ with me about this! I am your President!"

"Yes, sir. And I am your Head Gamemaker, and if I quit right now you will have quite a dilemma on your hands. And as a matter of fact, in my contract, it clearly states that I have sole authority over any Games-related questions or obstacles, including but not limited to arenas, tributes, training, sponsor systems, mentors, and escorts. As this falls under the tributes category, it is not only my decision but also my right to tell you that under no circumstances will the Capitol be fixing the Reapings as long as I am in charge."

President Snow was growing tired of Seneca Crane's proclamations. The last one, which had been made in full earshot of Panem's High Senate, had taken several straight hours of smoothing over. "If you insist," he said at last, still gripping the tiny vial. "But be warned: one mistake and you _will_ regret the consequences."

* * *

 _Happy SYOT!_

 _I'm pleased to announce that the deadline to submit a tribute has arrived! **If I have already spoken to you concerning a character, or if you have reserved a spot, this is still valid and I am waiting for your PM.** But if I haven't, I'm not in need of any new ones._

 _I have almost finished sorting out Districts and escorts, and then I have to fix up the blog. You can hope for the second half of the prologue by this weekend._

 _Thank you for all the favorites and follows already, and I hope you all enjoy the story of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games!_

 _Joyana_


	2. Prologue II

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
.: Prologue II :.  
**

Lately, Seneca Crane had been proud of himself. He'd stood up to the old man (twice now) and survived. He had a wonderful boyfriend of two years who didn't particularly mind if the Head Gamemaker screwed a couple Victors now and then. And, with any hope, the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games would finally turn the tables on the Capitol. Yeah, life was pretty good.

And now he'd gone and fucked it up like the patented idiot he was.

"Seneca, dear, you _have_ to give me a clue! There's just no way you can expect me to bet on . . . "

Prissy little Malla Medal was on the phone for the third time that day, still complaining about the tribute list. Malla had gained a reputation as the hands-down best investor of the Hunger Games. Somehow, ze just _always_ managed to choose the tributes that ended up in the final three. After many years and investigations, the authorities had reluctantly declared zer an honest individual; ze wasn't cheating.

Well, except that ze was.

What caused Malla to be so lucky, Games after Games, was the fact that — for the rather hefty price of 86,000,000 credits — _darling_ Mr. Crane granted zer with the pre-planned tribute list. The full package came with the males and females from each District, along with their backgrounds, personality traits, appearances, and skills. With all of that, it wasn't particularly difficult to guess which children would end up in the top three.

But this year, Seneca had made the executive decision not to fix the Reapings, and it was coming back to bite him in the ass. Majorly. Because now he was losing Malla.

"As I was saying, _honey_ , I can't support these Games without my usual . . . knowledge. I'm simply unable to find it in my heart to _feel_ for these tributes without _knowing_ about them, you see. And as a result, if you truly refuse to provide me with the list, I shall have to pull all of my funds. And, disheartened as I will be, it is likely I'll convince others to do the same."

Seneca wanted to rip his ears off. Not only would he be deprived of the money he'd come to call his Malla Bonus, but ratings were going to plummet without wealthy sponsors. Nine days into the Reapings, when no one could afford to even send the Careers a cracker, people were going to realize that the biggest names were missing in action.

And he couldn't believe he was hearing this _the day before_ the damn Reapings. Even if he'd _wanted_ to procure a list, it was way too late. He'd already informed the escorts — and the President of Panem — that the Reapings were fair this year. Going back on that would make him both a liar and a fool, two things he had never, _ever_ been known as. He damn well wasn't starting now.

So he performed the classiest act he could think of, under the circumstances. He hung up on Malla Medal.

Not a minute later, the phone was ringing again. He snatched it before the noise imploded his brain, then took a deep breath. When he spoke, he sounded significantly calmer than he was. "Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane speaking; how may I help you?"

"This is Mister Fiori, and I just heard from Malla Medal that — "

"Yes, sir, anything ze told you is likely correct. I have decided that pre-planned tributes will no longer exist while the Hunger Games are under my watch. Therefore, I cannot give you a list because — "

This time, the person on the other end hung up on him.

The last call Seneca accepted that day was from his boyfriend, who also happened to be quite an influential member of President Snow's High Senate.

"Sen, listen. I have really important news."

"If it's about the fucking sponsors, just don't tell me," he replied dully, exhausted. The only thing Seneca wanted to do was drink four bottles of Destiel's best Sauvignon Blanc and forget all about the worst mistake he'd ever made.

For a moment, he deliberated. "Sorry, Sen, but you've got to hear this. The President heard from Speaker Kahle Circe who heard from High Dame — "

" _Seriously_ , Julius. Just . . . don't. I know I fucked up."

"Anyway, President Snow heard from Speaker Kahle Circe who heard from High Dame Anastasia Sorrell who heard from Mister Lione Fiori who heard from Malla Medal that you weren't handing out the tribute list because you weren't fixing it this time."

"I already told him that myself," Seneca answered, recalling the President's knowing smirk and trying to resist the urge to punch the guy's lights out the next time they saw each other.

"Well, now he's pissed off, Sen. He's got that manic glint in his eyes that comes whenever he's thinking of killing someone."

"You mean the same expression he's had every day of his life?"

Julius let out a reluctant laugh. "I _knew_ you had a joke in there somewhere. But, in all seriousness, he is _mad_. You didn't hear it from me, but the Districts are going a bit stir-crazy. You know how they get out there. And he's worried about rebellion."

Well, of course Seneca knew _that_. "What do the tributes have to do with that?"

"Well, if ratings go down, that means there are problems in the Capitol. And those are issues that President Snow has to deal with. And those rebels could use all this to their advantage and creep up when we don't expect them, or even try to convert disgruntled Capitol citizens to their cause. Look, I personally don't think it could ever go that far, but . . . I'm really scared for you."

It was so cute, sometimes, how Julius was always nervous on his behalf. But this was not one of those times. "I don't know what you expect me to do, J."

"Find the rebels, put their kids in the bowls! Tell the escorts! You have twelve hours; it can be done!"

"Maybe it could be." Seneca sighed. "But that's not what I want to do."

On the other end, there was a long pause. Stunned silence, probably. "No, Sen. You're kidding. You'd rather him execute you?"

"I truly don't think he'd do that. But if that's what it comes down to, I'll leave. Go into hiding in the Districts like tons of other Gamemakers had to. He'll have better things to do than chase me down."

"Will you . . . take me with you, Sen? You . . . you will, right? Right?"

A grin spread across Seneca's face. No matter what the other Capitolites thought, no matter how many nefarious plans Snow had cooked up, no matter if it meant leaving his entire world behind, Julius Wright would always have his back.

Maybe in return for this, the Head Gamemaker would even stop fucking any Victor over the age of sixteen.

(But probably not.)

* * *

 _However, you amazing people are not Capitolites, and therefore you have access to the tribute list! You can find it at **thefightisinyourbloodhg. blogspot. com** , with no spaces. I do know that these are extreme first impressions of the tributes. However, it would still mean a lot if you explained in a review which characters are your favorites and least favorites, and why. In fact, if you have time, would you tell me your first impressions of everyone? (Or, if you don't have the time or patience for that, at least let me know what you think of your own character.)_


	3. Prologue III

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
.: Prologue III :.**

Celestia Sapphire Snow was performing some sort of war dance in the family room.

Ever since Celestia was a toddler, it had been her habit to sprint around the coffee table waving her arms in the air whenever she accomplished something. This routine was normally accompanied by the shouting of her mother and the slamming of her sister's door. Currently, Individual Fratelios Snow was also joining the cacophony.

"Yes indeed, sir!" Fratelios was on the phone, ner typically quiet voice amplified by the fact that ne was talking to ner boss. "Six tickets to the Reaping announcements, four for the family and two more for our guests . . . Why, of _course_ we'd love to have you along, sir, but I'm afraid both of the extras have been set aside for my wife's friends . . . What an _incredibly_ generous offer, sir, but . . . Well, if you put it _that_ way . . . Yes, I'm sure that my darling Thorea will find a way to make it up to them . . . Wonderful, sir, I'm very glad to hear it . . . We'll see you there bright and early tomorrow morning! In fact, we'd better arrive by seven thirty if we want to be seated before the throng . . . Goodbye, sir."

After this conversation had concluded, Fratelios entered the den to find ner wife scrolling through her tablet wearing earmuffs. When she noticed ner, she sighed and pulled them off. "Can you find a way to calm Celestia down?" she asked. "She's giving me a migraine."

"You're not the only one," ne replied, rolling ner eyes. "Panem knows why she's so excited about the Reapings; she sees them every year."

"It's something about the President's box," Thorea Snow explained knowingly. "The glitz, the glamour . . . I'm sure once she gets over the shock, she'll be calling all her little friends to brag about it."

Ne exhaled. "Speaking of bragging about things . . . I might have just given the two tickets to High Master Samartia and his wife."

"You're a pushover," she answered, slightly angry but also resigned. Unlike many people in the Capitol, she loved her spouse, and sometimes these sorts of things had to be dealt with. "How do you expect me to break the news to Missus Epythamine and High Dame Ariel?"

Fratelios slumped on the sofa, trying to ignore the persistent screeching of ner younger daughter. "You could always ask your father for more," ne suggested, not altogether politely.

This was one of the only other sore spots between the two adults: Coriolanus Snow was the sole surviving member of Thorea's immediate family. He also happened to be quite overprotective and controlling, and thought everything was his business, even though his daughter and her spouse were perfectly functioning members of society.

Just thinking about it caused Fratelios to clench ner fists.

Thorea's voice was gentle. "Hey, we don't go there, Fratelios. You know that."

Yes, ner wife did everything she could to renounce her father's radical beliefs, but that didn't mean President Snow wasn't always _there_ , hovering and making demands that they never could fulfill to his satisfaction. And then he found small ways to punish them: a demotion for Fratelios, a drop in Thorea's sales. Once, he even dared to have Cosmillia removed from the guest list of a schoolmate's extremely important party.

"Honey." Thorea leaned over to caress her spouse's shoulders. "We do the best we can with what we've got, alright?"

Valiantly, Fratelios made an effort to smile. "I suppose we do."

 **::**

Upstairs, Cosmillia Snow pounded on the wall of her bedroom. Her fists were making dents, but she didn't particularly mind; she needed her room redone. The last time it had been painted was _two months ago_! In other words, a lifetime.

"Would you _please_ close your pretty _mouth_ , Celestia? For the love of Panem, I'm trying to focus on my _homework_ , which is something you wouldn't know about considering you're undeniably _stupid_!"

The younger girl paused for a second to shout, "I'm _happy_ , Cosmillia! Not stupid!" before resuming her chant, now whistling loudly in between shrieks.

In response, Cosmillia blasted her own music. She'd purchased the new Harem album yesterday, and the songs were _incredible_. She especially appreciated _Girl Forced To Cope_ , for she herself was certainly that.

"Cosmillia! Turn that _down_!" her mother called. "One would think that you could be more mature than your sister. Speaking of, Celestia, if you don't knock that off in five seconds or less, you'll stay in this house during the Reapings, no matter what!"

That was a lie. President Snow would take offense if his younger granddaughter wasn't perched prettily in his personal box tomorrow, and everyone knew what that meant. More privileges removed, more penalties established.

It was all too precarious for Cosmillia's liking.

She wished there was a way to calm her grandfather, to reassure him that everything was alright and there was no need to hover this way. He was taking out his anger and stress on _her_ family, and it needed to stop. She supposed that the best way to fix that was to make this year's Hunger Games the best yet.

After all, that had to be the problem: the Games were causing some sort of mayhem, and once they were over President Snow would be much happier. Though it probably wouldn't stop him from interfering. So what would?

Maybe giving him _more_ work was the solution. If he had so much to do as President, then he couldn't possibly find the time to coax and nag. So how could she go about creating labor?

By _making_ problems. Yes, that was the answer. If Cosmillia could find a way to sneak inside the system, piss off a few people, and cause some issues, then surely President Snow would have more than enough on his plate.

So how could she go about it in a way that wouldn't harm anyone? If this was traced back to herself or her family, the President would never take his eye off them again. But if she dove in too deep, she'd be involved in politics, and that was no place for a girl of sixteen.

So she decided to start where anyone would, with the most unstable people in Panem: the Gamemakers.

* * *

 _I hope you liked this chapter! I don't think it's the most brilliant thing I've ever written, but this did need to happen. Please just tell me what you think, and what your opinions are of Cosmillia and her family. Now, onto some things that I know are going to come up. If you review to ask me about something I've already explained, I might just send you one of those little passive-aggressive smiley faces and tell you to read the damn author's note. So, here goes._

 _On the subject of these strange pronouns that you keep seeing and that I've already been asked about four times: nonbinary is a gender experience which stands outside the binary genders of 'man' and 'woman'. Nonbinary individuals may identify as neither man nor woman, or both man and woman, or something else entirely, or some of these things some of the time, or any combination thereof. Many people who are nonbinary use alternate pronouns, meaning that instead of the familiar 'he' or 'she', they use 'they', or 'xe', or 'ze', or 'ne', or 'fae'. (And these are just common ones that I have seen used many times; there are tons and tons more.) These pronouns can help nonbinary people feel more comfortable about their gender because they aren't using pronouns that we consider to be gendered, like 'he' or 'she', which are traditionally associated with men and women, respectively._

 _More specifically, Malla Medal is DFAB (meaning 'designated female at birth', so doctors saw zer when ze was born and labeled zer a woman), but ze identifies as a genderflux demigirl (meaning sometimes ze is fully a woman but sometimes ze slides across the scale and identifies more neutrally), so ze uses 'ze/zer' pronouns. Similarly, Fratelios Snow is DMAB (meaning 'designated male at birth', so doctors saw ner when ne was born and labeled ner a man), but ne identifies as agender, meaning ne does not feel a distinct gender experience, and is quite neutral, so ne uses 'ne/ner' pronouns. There are thousands, if not millions, of people currently in the world that identify as nonbinary. I'm sure that there would be many more in Panem's Capitol. Not everyone will be trans or nonbinary, but there will be a fair amount. If something here or in the story confuses you, send me a message!_

 _I'd like to make known right now that I am cisgender (meaning that I identify with the gender I was assigned at birth, so a doctor looked at me and labeled me a girl and I do feel as though I am a girl). So if any nonbinary folks would like to shoot me a review or a PM saying that I explained something incorrectly, feel free! I'm doing my best to be inclusive and clear about my explanations, but if something's up you're definitely welcome to talk to me!_

 _On the subject of these strange titles that are prefixing some people's names: I decided at the beginning of this story that although this is definitely going to focus on the tributes of the Sixty-Ninth Games, it is also going to zoom in on the Capitol. That means I'm trying to add some more depth, and once of the ways I'm doing this is through setting up a Capitol hierarchy, which basically makes the statuses of the people I'm describing obvious. Now, this is not set in stone, but the way I'm setting it up will probably stay as thus:_

 _Panem's First Class - people who have one-of-a-kind jobs: the Head Gamemaker or the Supreme Judge or Masters of Government Departments_

 _Panem's Second Class - people who have careers branching off the one-of-a-kind jobs: Gamemakers or High Judges or High Senators or Officers of Government Departments or children of Panem's First Class_

 _Panem's Third Class - people who have important but lower-ranking / more common jobs: Senators or Judges or Minors of Government Departments or Hunger Games Escorts or children of Panem's Second Class_

 _Panem's Fourth Class - people who have jobs that involve the highest level of education: Therapists or Doctors or Dentists or Plastic Surgeons or Scientists or Teachers or children of Panem's Third Class_

 _Technically, everyone in the Capitol is grouped into a Class, as each Capitol job has a Class associated with it. This Class is written on their identification. Anyone who is proud of their Class (usually Seventh or higher, in most minds) will usually place it on their letterheads, and people will also be formally announced by their Class, as Seneca was when he entered President Snow's office. (Speaking of, President Snow is in a Class all his own.) The Classes go down to Twentieth, but those are nobodies in the Capitol's viewpoint._

 _This is why Fratelios has taken Thorea's last name of Snow; she is a member of Panem's First Class (as the President's child) and when a person is married, both partners are required to take on the surname and Class of whichever one is of the highest Class._

 _Members of Panem's First Class are known by Mister, Missus, or Individual. These are not abbreviated, ever._

 _Members of Panem's Second Class are known by their job-specific titles. Although there are a few jobs that qualify as Second Class that are not as well-known, the four most common are Gamemaker (Gamemakers), Honorable (High Judges), Speaker (High Senators), or Officer (Officers of Government Departments)._

 _Members of Panem's third class are known by High Dame, High Master, or High Mortal._

 _Members of Panem's fourth class are known by Sir, Ma'am, or Citizen._

 _Anyone lower than that is simply referred to by their name. Some may prefer Mr., Mrs., or Ind. but these are always abbreviated and are not titles that would be used in a formal announcement._

 _Then there are people like Malla Medal, whom you may have no noticed has no official title. Ze is one of the relatively few people in the Capitol who are wealthy thanks to good luck, sound investments, or bribery (or a mix of all three). The amount of money one has does not determine their title. For instance, Malla Medal is officially in Panem's Eighth Class, as the direct offspring of a member of Panem's Seventh Class._

 _Furthermore, titles can change as people move up or down in their respective profession or career. Nothing is set in stone, and social mobility is quite easy._

 _And lastly, I want to say very loudly that this hierarchy does not discriminate against people of color, or women, or anyone who is not binary and straight. Although discrimination against those groups of people exists very much now, I've decided based on canon evidence that it does not happen in Panem's Capitol._

 _Okay, that author's note was probably longer than the chapter itself, but I hope it made all of this clear. You're probably not interested in reading all of it, but at least it's here and now you know._

 _The next chapter will most likely be the Reapings, although there might be a fourth part of the prologue in which I describe the Gamemakers._

 _Review, if you would!_

 _Joyana_


	4. Reapings I

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
.: Reaping I :.**

... From The Point Of View Of Ceremonial Claudia Crossbrooke, Master of Ceremonies, Panem's Second Class ...

On Reaping Day, the Master of Ceremonies traditionally waits behind a small door in the wings. It's supposed to be a time of _reflection_ to truly _empathize_ with the future tributes who will be so very alone for the next month.

Unfortunately, as much as I'd honestly like to be by myself right now, I'm surrounded by two shrinks, three makeup artists, someone I don't know who is cooing over my shoes, and President Snow's assistant's junior undersecretary. I'm told that there was an _incident_ last year.

Well, if the previous Master of Ceremonies tried to run away, I don't really blame them. Even behind this heavy curtain, the lights are blinding and the roar of the crowd is causing my ears to ring. I don't fancy the thought of strolling out there and facing them.

One of the shrinks sees the expression on my face and grabs my hand. "Are you excited, nervous? What is your — "

Semi-effectively, I tune him out. He's still jabbering behind me, but it's more of an incessant whine rather than a four-alarm squeal.

From the corner, Caesar Flickerman (he's my favorite cameraman, and I've promised to put in an application for his promotion) waves his arms to catch my attention. When I nod at him, he begins lowering his fingers. Five, four, three, two . . .

The curtains swing open, revealing a studio audience large enough to take up President Snow's entire wing of the White Palace and a few more rooms besides. As I stand there, my face is being projected to the entirety of the Capitol.

I hastily rearrange my features into a gorgeous smile, kick the poor kid who's still transfixed by my boots out of the way, and march onstage.

"Good _morning_ Panem! How _is_ everyone today?"

The literal roar that emanates from the crowd makes me dizzy. To hide it, I lower myself into my armchair and cross my legs at the ankles, beaming benevolently at the camera in front of me. When the cheers extend into three minutes, then five, I clap my hands. "If y'all keep on like this, we'll never get to the Reapings!"

They laugh appreciatively, then settle into their chairs. Soon, the building grows so silent that I can hear the lone infant crying in the back.

It's seven fifty-nine.

"Alright, everyone, scream if you love District One!"

Again, the people leap to their feet, flashing their strings of quarts, topaz, or diamonds and hollering. District One, with its combination of beauty and deadly power, is always a fan favorite. I have to admit, I'm quite fond of them myself, even though Masters of Ceremonies aren't supposed to have a preference.

The screen behind me lights up, portraying the glittering main square. All of District One is gathered in their age groups, decked out in bright blues, rosy pinks, and gleaming metallics. As usual, they're a few seasons behind us with their trends, but not many.

Their escort stands on the stage, preening as he examines his pet District. Last year, _he_ was a _she_ , but now he's decided to revert to his original identity. Johnovieve-Carlos May is one strange individual, but he gets the work done, and he sure knows how to play to an audience.

We watch quietly as he greets his District. They grin and nod back at him, excited as always for the Games. What well-raised teenagers.

Then, when he's thoroughly finished making small talk with the mayor, Johnovieve-Carlos pulls a name that I don't even hear all of, because a girl shoves straight through the crowd and announces, "I volunteer as tribute!"

She struts up the aisle, smirking, her hips swaying. Someone has taught her how to walk in a dress, because her floor-length silk gown isn't causing her any problems at all. She swoops up the three steps to the stage and graciously accepts the microphone. Her voice is smooth and serene as she murmurs, "I am Satin Delacour, eighteen years old, and the next Victor of the Hunger Games."

My audience is on the edge of their seats, hands poised to applaud her. I wave them down; if they make noise we'll miss the next tribute!

Johnovieve-Carlos doesn't even have to touch the next bowl before three young men race towards the stage, elbowing and shoving each other. One drops back, shrugging; maybe he has another year. Two more continue, running up the stairs side by side. At the very last second, the dark-haired one forces the other off the platform. He lands on his feet and glares bloody murder as a Peacekeeper escorts him back to his section.

"That was very interesting!" Johnovieve-Carlos chirps. "Share with us your name, sir!"

The boy flashes a smile that has half of District One, plus almost all of the Capitol, swooning. "Alessio Donati." He pauses, then adds, "And I'm very much single, ladies."

"It wouldn't matter anyway!" someone in the front row yells, and the rest take that as their cue to start stomping and clapping.

Once again, I wait for them to quiet down before declaring, "What splendid tributes! Which one is your favorite?" I toss my microphone to a young mother, whose jaw drops at the thought of speaking in front of the Capitol. She shakes her head and passes the mic to her husband.

"Alessio, of course! What a man, what a man! A truly strong and inspiring volunteer!" He hurls the microphone back at me, and I catch it with the very tips of my fingers.

"Thank you, thank you. Who agrees?"

The throng shrieks and flashes thumbs-up signs, but before the shouting can start up in earnest, District Two flashes behind me, and I hush everyone.

District Two's square is tucked under a rock face, providing shade from the bright sun. For the most part, they wear grays and blacks to blend in with their quarries. They have tough, tense expressions on their faces; their legs are straight; their arms are pressed against their sides; their shoulders are facing perfectly forward. Their dedication is cute, but they take themselves too seriously, the darlings.

Royal Winterbalm is one of my dearest friends, partially because she doesn't have many, so she needs someone like me to support her. To the rest of the Capitol, she's "too tough for a girl," but she was my protector back when I was in grade school, and I love her for it. And she's perfect for District Two; just like them, she's a bit too solemn to have any fun.

Royal's fingers fish in the District Two bowl. It's all for show, of course; Two has had volunteers annually since the third Hunger Games.

"Antigone Dawn," she speaks, not even bothering to scan the crowd for the girl who has been Reaped.

Like clockwork, a female steps out. "I volunteer," she says, almost sweetly. A sly smile creeps across her face as she fingers the platinum tag circling her neck. Almost every year, the District Two tributes possess this token, and no one has ever asked why. Well, I won't forget.

Royal moves closer. "Come, come, tell us who you are."

"Aria Black." The tribute cocks her head to the side, her pale celery-colored eyes boring into the camera. (How does she know exactly where it's placed?) "Remember the name, sweethearts."

A shiver goes down my spine, and I can see I'm not the only one. Half the crowd is squirming in their seats. Aria's eyelashes flutter. Yes, she's someone to watch.

Even Royal feels it. Her shoulders hunch as she retreats to the male bowl.

"Arjun Clark."

"It's me this year." A boy — though man is really the better word — strolls down the aisle. He's leaning back, hands in the pockets of his neat black slacks. When he reaches Royal, he bows to her. "Constantine Cass, at your service."

Behind their backs, Aria rolls her eyes, and my audience laughs. After the tributes shake hands, the feed cuts for a few minutes.

"Thoughts, everyone?" I ask, tensing as I brace for their screams. But surprisingly, they aren't very loud, so I share my own opinions. It's times like this when I wish I had an assistant, because otherwise I'm talking to myself. "Well, Miss Black certainly has something special, does she not?"

I picture someone nodding at me, replying with their own thoughts, before I continue. "And Constantine. What a gentleman. He sure knows how to treat the ladies!"

A perfectly executed wolf whistle echoes through the room, and I wink at the flamboyantly gay man who sounded it. "Indeed."

There are a few awkward seconds during which I realize that I have nothing more to say before District Three appears onscreen. Three is always a letdown after the relative grandeur of One and Two, and this time is no different. The entire square is drab, with factories looming in the distance. The potential tributes clothes' are either too small or too large, and even the mayor seems out of place in his hulking suit.

Fortunately, Extravagantavious Selivon makes up for it. He's the mainstay of the Capitol, the monster under every child's bed. _Don't argue with your sister or High Master Selivon will be hiding in your closet. Eat your vegetables, now, or High Master Selivon will sneak up behind you on your way to school._ He's the freak, the creep, the one who makes everybody want to cover their eyes. To me, he's a wonderful source of amusement.

He tiptoes onto the platform, jumping to place his hands on the mayor's shoulders. The poor man screams and swats him away, then realizes that he's hit a Capitol citizen.

"I . . . I . . . My apologies, Extravagantavious."

"Yes, yes," he hisses. "I'm sure you're so very sorry. Maybe the tributes _this_ year will _finally_ make up for your . . . _inadequacy_."

Basically in sync, everyone down on the ground takes three steps backward, as though walking out would work if they all left together. To some of them, Extravagantavious is probably scarier than the Hunger Games themselves.

The escort's long fingers flit through the girls' bowl, choosing and discarding papers until he comes across one that feels right. Or something. "Ro Colbolt."

The sixteen-year-olds all have relieved expressions as they move out of the way, leaving a girl with auburn hair standing alone. The camera zooms in on her face, revealing wide dark eyes brimming with tears. She's just there, shaking, biting her tongue. She makes no move to run, but none to ascend the platform either.

Eventually, two Peacekeepers come up behind her, half-dragging her up to the stage. She isn't crying, but that's about all that can be said for her. When they place her next to her escort, she appears just as she did in her pen: small and shivering.

Extravagantavious doesn't even try to hide his scoff as he chooses the second tribute. "Ky Winters."

This kid comes from the back, so he can't be any older than twelve or thirteen. His eyes are a bit unfocused, his movements dazed as he drifts towards the front. His steps are slower than the slithering of a snail. He's mouthing words to himself, but it isn't until he reaches the camera that we can see what they are.

 _It isn't real, Ky. This is a nightmare. It isn't real._

With two fingers, Extravagantavious distastefully lifts both tributes' hands. "District Three: Ro and Ky. May you not both die in the Bloodbath."

"Well, that was . . . disappointing!" I say. "But then again, I'm sure after the superb showings from One — and Two — that anyone would have been a bit of a letdown. Fortunately, we're heading for another fantastic District: Four!"

This inspires nods of acknowledgment from the crowd; as District Four is shown on the projector, they start shouting. The tanned, athletic tributes of Four always do well. In fact, their amount of Victors is slowly approaching the number of those from One and Two. Will wonders never cease.

The scenery is gorgeous. In the Capitol, it's been rainy lately, which is surprising but pleasurable as it almost never precipitates here. But in Four: the sun glows, reflecting off the surface of the bright blue gulf of water. Even the sand sparkles.

Just to top it off, Klaus Felidine bounds onto the stage, his long mahogany-tinted hair bouncing. I had a _huge_ crush on him — I kind of still do — before he grew famous and came out as gay. I want to wrinkle my nose, but that causes lines.

"Tribu — children of District Four." He regards them with fierce affection; it's clear in his triumphant grin and slow nod as he assesses the assembled group. It's honestly _so_ inspiring to see an escort who truly _cares_ about their District. "Are you _ready_ for the Sixty-Ninth annual Hunger Games?"

They aren't quite as enthusiastic about the Games as One and Two generally are, but Four has had quite a crop of talented volunteers as of late, and I'm glad. It's much easier to increase my audience's enthusiasm when there's a prepared District after Three's typical nonevent.

"Very good; I'm so glad to see the shining happiness on all of your young faces!" He makes eye contact with a girl in the front row, who blows a kiss back at him. If possible, his smile grows even wider as he chooses a slip. "Aquamarine Haven!"

There is a moment of silence as the girl ascends the stage. She's the epitome of a fantastic tribute: strong, sturdy, with fire in her eyes. So it's a bit of a shock when another female enters the aisle.

"I volunteer as tribute."

Aquamarine observes her replacement, then nods her approval as she returns to her family. Over her shoulder, she calls, "Good luck, Trill!"

"Thanks, hon!" The girl flashes bright white teeth as she moves to stand next to Klaus. They have a quick tussle over the microphone that culminates in a laughing tribute and a panting escort. Then she announces, her dark brown eyes twinkling, "Hey, I'm Trilliant Crowley, and it's real nice to represent District Four in the Hunger Games. I hope I make all of you proud!"

Klaus slings an arm around her shoulders. "I'm already proud of you, Miss Crowley! Or may I call you Trilliant?"

"You can call me Trill, actually." She rises onto the balls of her feet to kiss him on the forehead. "Sound good?"

"Perfect," he assures her, strolling towards the male container. He selects a card, examines it for a long minute, then replaces it.

I exchange a horrified glance with the studio crowd. This is the most illegal thing I've ever seen! But Klaus is the Capitol's dear; I'm sure no one will feel the need to fine him for this. Not when District Four will have a volunteer anyway. He reads the name on the next paper: "Minor Pontack."

"I volunteer!" someone shouts at the top of their lungs, before forcing their way out of the sixteen-year-old pen and marching up to the stage. The kid's grinning hugely; it's so cute that competing in the Hunger Games is probably his life goal! "I am Beta Venux, and I want to give a shoutout to my family. That's my mama, Alina! And my papa Davo's over in the green shirt. They'll be buying every one of you free drinks later!"

A surprised whoop goes up from the District Four crowd as they begin to applaud, chanting Beta's name. On the stage, Trilliant is caught murmuring, "I can't believe you stole my fire, Beta."

"You can't have everything, I guess." He winks.

There's always a commercial break before the drudgery of announcing the outlying Districts, so I click off the projector and face the throng. "How are you feeling?"

"What a pack!" High Mortal Bee Ruffin shouts over the crowd. "I'll be placing some great money on that alliance, mark my words. Who's with me?"

A deafening cheer goes up. I even add a whistle to the cacophony.

"I'm glad you're enjoying this year's Reapings, y'all! And I'm just as ecstatic to see what the rest of the Districts have to offer. Seven and Eleven always have some good ones, and maybe there will be a special surprise down the road!" I doubt it, but whatever.

I stand in the center of the stage until the spotlight dims, and then I jog off into the wings to fix up my makeup and clothes. Maybe I'll even take off these shoes; eight inches is a bit high, even by my standards. (Which are also quite high, don't get me wrong.)

* * *

 _Here's your first Reaping chapter!_

 _If you submitted one of these eight characters, you need let me know what you think of them; otherwise I'll have no idea if I'm doing a decent job at writing them. If you didn't, leave a review anyway: which of these eight do you love, which do you hate, who's in the middle, who haven't you decided about? Do you like Claudia, or not?_

 _Other than that, tell me what you think of the writing style, flow, and point of view. It means so much to hear from each and every one of you._

 _Joyana_


	5. Reapings II

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
.: Reapings II :.**

... From The Point Of View Of Ceremonial Claudia Crossbrooke, Master of Ceremonies, Panem's Second Class ...

I stand in the wings, a makeup artist to my right and a hairstylist to my left, watching Caesar Flickerman crack jokes onstage. He's become my stand-in, the one who appears during commercial breaks to entertain the audience while I have a break. And I can tell he's a hit; everyone is shaking with laughter. I wish they would do that when I spoke.

"Two minutes," one of the teenage interns warns. I give him a nod, then turn back to the mirror to examine my bright pink eyeliner. The thin line loops around my cheeks, creating designs of flowers and lace. I'm considering a tattoo in the same pattern, but what if I change favorite colors one day?

The boy juts his chin towards the stage. In the few seconds it took to admire both sides of my face, Caesar has already departed, leaving the spotlight open for me. Maybe I should ask if I can take him on as my co-host; it gets lonely out there by myself, and Panem knows he would make the outlying Reapings much more interesting.

I watch the seconds flick by. The last few are always the slowest, made worse by the fact that I'm not sure whether I'm excited or a bit anxious.

At the last possible moment, I strut onstage. My smile is blinding, my golden eyes are bright, and my hips are swinging perfectly. Applause and shouts rise from the crowd, and a bouquet of flowers is tossed onto the stage. I scoop it up and kiss the petals before throwing it back to the audience; I'm not allowed to keep fan gifts.

"It's District Five's turn, everybody! Anyone planning on betting on the energy District this year?"

There are a few noncommittal shrugs and head tilts, but the vast majority of the throng is silent. It doesn't surprise me; Five has had four Victors in sixty-eight years. There's no reason for anyone to place precious credits on these tributes.

But I try to amp them up anyway, asking, "What if there was a really special tribute this year, a surprise?" I allow a smirk to creep across my face.

"What do you know?" a kid hollers suspiciously, causing a large group of old ladies in the row behind him to cackle and take turns patting him on the head.

"Everything, my dear." Thankfully, I don't have to expand on that because the screen behind me flickers, and District Five's square appears. A tense silence settles over the studio.

Rolik Calvieve has escorted District Five for six years. As a inductee, he'd been given the choice between Six and Seven, but he'd begged for Five. Since no one _ever_ wanted his chosen District (inductees included), his desire was granted. At the beginning, I'm assuming he thought it was an adventure of sorts, but now he just seems sick of it.

Rolik gives a shallow shrug to the mayor and Victors seated on the platform, bestows a tight smile on the families gathered below, and picks a name out of the female bowl. After clearing his throat twice, he reads, "Deena Smiths."

A girl moves out of her section, smiling and striding quickly. I wonder if she's truly unfazed, or whether she's trying to impress potential sponsors. Either way, Deena seems like an intriguing girl, one of the better offerings from Five.

Except that there is a shout from the sixteen-year-olds. "I volunteer as a tribute in the Hunger Games!"

My jaw drops as my audience begins clapping. Hastily, I shush them; I want to hear every moment of this! This is the first volunteer from a District above Four since . . . probably the Fifty-Third Games. Of course.

Sabille Fern was the spirited, fiery chick from Seven who stepped in for no apparent reason and murdered four people in the Bloodbath, two more on the second day (including one of her allies), and then absolutely decimated the girl from One in the final battle. Clearly, she had some serious anger issues. But she's a Victor now, so you won't catch me saying that out loud.

I turn my gaze back to the screen as the volunteer quietly makes her way up to the stage. Her eyes are downcast, but her feet are sure. When she reaches the Reaped tribute, she shoves her out of the way, whispering something too fast and soft for even the cameras to catch.

"Name?" Rolik wants to know.

"I'm Crest Remington," she responds, and that's all she will say. The lens pans back, keeping its distance as Crest stares up at the sky. This is a tactic that is regularly used to ward off tears in tributes, but for some reason I don't think that's what she's doing. Eventually the camera figures out that we should follow her gaze, and it turns up.

(Capitolites are supposed to hate these glossy black and white feathers and detest the birds for symbolizing the freedom of the Districts. Loyally, my audience yells and pumps their fists in the air, demanding that the animals be shot down. Me, I think they're beautiful.)

Yes, I watch, nothing short of enraptured, as a circle of mockingjays croon a low tune.

Bless Rolik. He couldn't be less interested. While everyone is staring, he pulls the male. "Clinton Queens." He has to repeat himself twice, tapping the microphone and sighing, before people start to pay attention again.

Immediately, a silhouette appears in the aisle. His shaggy black hair is sticking up every which way (and not stylishly). Although he is actually wearing a nice gray suit, he doesn't allow it to showcase broad shoulders or a flat stomach. Instead, he slouches up the stairs. The only emotion he shows is the rolling of his eyes when Rolik offers him the mic.

"Your tributes from District Five!" I call out, clapping because I'm sure no one else will. "Do either of them seem appealing this time around?"

"Crest!" someone shouts, and to my utter shock, a few others agree by screaming her name. "Crest! Crest!"

"I wonder why she volunteered," I muse. "Who was Deena Smith, and why was she so important to Crest Remington? Rest assured that I will find out!"

This time, there is no mistaking the audience's cheers. Yes, they actually like a District Five tribute.

An outlying volunteer is a subject that I would willingly have discussed at length, but duty calls, and District Six is up! And we all know that Beauty Fluenta needs her screen time. She puckers her hot pink lips at the camera, blowing a kiss to all four corners of Panem. It's her signature move.

After she's finished bouncing on her heels and grinning at what seems like every single potential tribute in the square, she finally bestows one last smile on the station to the right, where the tribute train is waiting. I'm sure a few District Six conductors keel over at the force of her happiness. But once she gets down to it, she chooses quickly.

"For the girls," she rummages through the overflowing bowl — Six is a famous tesserae District — , "Heidi Baecker."

 _Baecker?_ That's not a District surname, especially not from Six. In fact, I'm almost a hundred percent sure that there's a family who lives quite near me with the last name Baecker (well, they might not be there anymore; I don't keep very close track of my neighbors). But it'll be fun to expose the fact that the Baeckers have relatives in the Districts. The announcement will probably knock them down a few pegs, but that's my job!

Speaking of families, though, Heidi's doesn't look very happy that their daughter will be representing them in the Hunger Games. The father — or a man I'm presuming is him — in particular appears absolutely mutinous. Ooh, I hope he doesn't cause problems. (Though, on second thought, it will give me something to talk about during his daughter's interview.)

For her part, Heidi stalks up to the stage, biting her lip. I can see the beads of blood. "Heidi Baecker," she declares loudly enough that we can hear her clearly without the aid of Beauty's microphone. "And you're all going to fucking pay."

I wonder why the Baeckers have such a vendetta! Maybe the Capitol family would know.

Beauty raises her eyebrows, peering at Heidi. Then she shakes herself and selects another slip. "Huud Lamynt, come present yourself."

The scowl on his face is obvious, but even though he must know that we've all seen his displeasure in being chosen, he doesn't bother to change his expression. When his escort asks if he wants to say anything, he shrugs a shoulder. "It kind of sucks to be taken from my District, but I'll figure it out. I always do."

"Wise words," Beauty affirms, and the feed is cut.

As much as I'd like to hold a quick conversation with the crowd, I don't want the fact about the Baeckers to accidentally slip; that's going to be my surprise during the interviews. Or one of them, anyway. So I'm happy when District Seven comes up quickly.

Their square is my personal favorite. The Justice Building is positioned in a circular clearing, surrounded completely by a forest of wonderfully green trees. It's so shady and beautiful. They're really lucky to be connected with nature like that; I bet they take it completely for granted too.

It would be fitting that they'd be assigned an escort who also loved the environment (like I do!), but Eliiane Doe has always been a paranoid, finicky little thing. In fact, xe's taken it to a new level this year. Apparently, xe has a legitimate phobia that the kids are going to jump onto the stage and slice xer up with their axes, so xe stands on a podium at the very back, half-hidden in the shadows. Xer voice is shivering as xe plucks a name from a container.

"Evelyn Summers."

For the last few years, fear has been a thing of the past for District Seven. And Evelyn is no different. With a grim look on her gorgeous face, she stalks up to the platform. When she reaches it, she walks straight towards Eliiane, grabs the mic, and declares, "My name is Evelyn Summers, and I'm . . . I'm here to win."

Eliiane whips away from the determined tribute and grabs a male slip, sending several others floating to the floor in the process. One of them opens, revealing the name Emerson Pinestop.

"Tomer Grove."

Nobody moves. In fact, the square is eerily silent. There is none of the usual shuffling and whispering in the correct section.

"Tomer Grove?" the escort repeats, probably wary that they're planning an attack. "Tomer, please come out!"

Xer shrill voice causes the thirteen-year-olds to back away, leaving a redheaded kid standing in the middle. With a strangled cry, he turns and bolts.

I'll give him one thing: he's pretty damn fast. He zigzags around the rest of the children — none try to stop him — and races past the check-in station. He's almost to the fence when a Peacekeeper catches up, grabs him by the arm, and spins him around. Then he is marched up to the stage and dumped in a heap next to his female counterpart.

"M-may the odds be . . . e-ever in your f-favor," Eliiane mutters before racing into the Justice Building.

"A runaway!" I chirp. "What do you think of that?"

"Kid's got spirit!" a man barks. I think he's the same one who spoke about Alessio earlier; he has identical lavender hair. "But he's too young. Down in the Bloodbath, in my opinion."

I nod thoughtfully as District Eight appears. Gallant Ferdana is the first person I see, and even by Capitol standards I have to shield my eyes. With the shoulders and legs of a muscular man, and the breasts and hips of a delicate woman, this escort is a bit disconcerting, to say the least. Plus, Gallant insists on using 'mutt' pronouns, which are not on the accepted list. So we refer to him as a man.

But he is pretty funny, and he loves his District. It's almost sweet.

Carefully, he runs his hands over the girls' bowl, then smiles benevolently at a female near the front. Her eyes widen and she faints. She must be scared of Gallant too.

Ignoring her, the escort reaches in and rifles through the pile of papers. "Esther Crates-Trace," he pronounces carefully.

A girl, tall for a District female, picks her way towards the front. She's angry, but her mouth is quite docile. No, she doesn't seem the type to yell profanities.

"Would you like to say something?" Gallant asks, offering her the microphone.

Her dark eyes glow, and she seems about to reply. But then she thinks better of it and shakes her head, murmuring, "I'll tell you at the interviews."

"Fair enough, fair enough, a girl must always invoke some mystery into the equation!" With a flutter of his hand, he strolls away. "Giovani Blackett!"

A boy with murder in his eyes is onstage before I can blink. It was almost magic, the way he flew straight from his section to the platform. True stealth, strange in an outlying tribute.

He looks as though he might say something interesting, but instead a corner of his mouth turns up and he simply declares, "I'll be back here in about a month. I hope you all have gifts for me." Much like Aria's before him, his brown eyes bore straight into the camera and we shudder on cue.

"It's all talk!" a person roars from the back of the room. "He'll be the first one dead off the pedestal!"

"I doubt it," I reply silkily. "He looks like he means business. What do y'all think?"

About half the crowd starts yelling, while the others twiddle their thumbs thoughtfully, then shake their heads no.

"Will y'all be sponsoring him, though? That's the real question!"

Now about an eighth of the audience is screaming, but that's still a decent amount for the boy from Eight. I'd love to let them go on, but I have one last question, and it simply must be asked.

"So, what do you think? Aria and Giovani?"

People consider it, and then they hoot and holler. Yes, they'll be this year's pair of star crossed lovers, if I have anything to say about it. We usually have a couple tributes each Hunger Games who use that angle, though it's never gotten them anything but a few extra sponsors in the beginning.

"So, how were these Districts?" I shout.

Only a handful of audience members are willing to cheer openly, and they're the ones who sponsor the outlying tributes each and every year, hoping that they'll die easy deaths or go on to win. They're the people who have enough conscience to make up for the vast majority of Capitolites, who don't have _any_. At least, that's what my mother used to say before the President's people shut her up. I'm not sure I agree with her, though; I wouldn't call _myself_ heartless, after all!

I exit my stage amid thunderous clapping, the lights above my head swirling, creating patterns in a multitude of colors. I vaguely register Caesar strolling in from the right wings, briskly swinging his arms. I hear the click of his heels against the wood. It's a sharp, ringing sound.

I don't want to look like I'm interested in the kid. For Panem's sake, he's a lowly _cameraman_! Why should I care about him? But I do. There's just something about him that makes me want him to succeed.

People think Caesar has spirit, presence, _fire_. I wish they would say that about me.

* * *

 _What do you think of these eight tributes? If they're yours, you really do need to leave me a review and tell me what you think about their descriptions. But even if they're not, I would love a comment anyway! Your feedback means so much to me; you all should know that._

 _Other than the tributes themselves, how is the writing in general? How's Claudia? (I tried to make her a bit more Capitolite-like, so I hope that comes out. And I added some more of her insecurities, because she'll be a pretty main character since some chapters will be in her point of view.) How's the pace? And how are you liking the story?_

 _Tell me everything!_

 _Joyana_


	6. Reapings III

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
** **.: Reapings III :.**

... From The Point Of View Of Ceremonial Claudia Crossbrooke, Master Of Ceremonies, Panem's Second Class ...

I know I said this already, but the Districts after Four are always boring. I'll admit that we did have some surprises with the volunteering of Crest, Heidi's mystery, Tomer's attempt to run, and the clear strength of Giovani. But there is no way we can have _more_ interesting outlying tributes. It's simply against the laws of the Hunger Games.

My curiosity is eating away at me, begging me to jump onto the stage and demand that the District Nine Reapings begin immediately. But Caesar is still out there, commercials are still playing, and I'm supposed to be using this time to calm down. Unfortunately, that's a little bit difficult when the damn shrink is trying to psychoanalyze me as I run through my lines.

"Ceremonial Crossbrooke, how does it feel to stand onstage in front of thousands of Capitol citizens, presenting them to the tributes of this year's Hunger Games? Do you feel happy, or anxious, or even guilty on behalf of the pain we are forcing these children through?"

(First of all, I'm pretty sure that sentence was grammatically incorrect in about a dozen ways. But even if it wasn't, the man's voice makes me want to stab myself. Just like the District Six girl last year, after she pushed her ally off a cliff. Such ridiculous logic, honestly. If she was planning on killing herself the entire time, why murder her friend?)

"I guess I'm . . . happy," I reply, hoping that it isn't a bad answer. There's no way I can stand five more minutes of this crap.

He scrutinizes me. "But Ceremonial Crossbrooke, are you positive that you feel no remorse for the pageant that you are endorsing?"

Shit, I got it wrong. "With all respect, Sir Trad, this is my job. I enjoy getting to know the tributes personally, I appreciate cheering and applause, and I absolutely love making predictions concerning these young individuals. It's fun, if you understand what that means. But you probably don't."

And with that, I turn on my heel and march towards my stylist. I need her to coif my hair; I have a gut feeling that the long pink waves are frizzing. There's not much to do after my hair is woven into an elegant braid except watch Caesar. He snaps his fingers at the end of a joke, causing the crowd to dissolve into laughter. I can't hear a thing he's saying, but he has them enthralled. He doesn't know how easy he has it. I had to _learn_ charisma. That bastard was born with it.

But I say that affectionately.

Finally, I am pushed onto the stage, and District Nine's square appears immediately. I guess the rest of the Capitol is getting bored too.

Nine has a surprisingly bright plaza; the sun beats down on the cobblestones, which are surrounded by flaming red silos and barns. Even through the speakers, I can hear the muted buzzing of the grinding mills. I can't believe that they don't have the respect to turn them off on Reaping Day.

Their escort is the opposite: Simonlea Caralaeous is strict, punctual, and clad in a dark but quite fashionable pantsuit. And she gets straight down to business. "Hello, District Nine. I'm glad that I have the opportunity to see you again. For the first tribute. Bianca Saunders."

Silently, the other children back away from a fifteen-year-old. Her fair skin is tinged with green. Just as the Peacekeepers step forward to walk her to the platform, she retches violently. Instinctively, I jump backwards, even though I am hundreds of miles away. The idea of vomit sickens me. As I shudder, my audience laughs.

"Are you alright?" Simonlea asks distastefully, as though she doesn't particularly care.

Bianca slumps, muttering, "Fine, thank you."

The escort nods sharply. "That's good to hear. The second tribute this year is Milo Fae. Unless someone would like to volunteer."

The kids shake their heads emphatically as a boy appears in the aisle. But instead of walking, he stands stock still, frozen in his tracks. After a few moments, he manages to pull himself together and make his way to the stage. His smile is desperate, but at least it's there. "Milo Fae."

"We know who you are, thank you," Simonlea quips. "Very well, District Nine, no volunteers?" She pauses. "Fine. Here are the tributes that will represent all of you in the Sixty-Ninth annual Hunger Games: Bianca Saunders and Milo Fae."

The studio audience is shrugging, not paying attention. I catch a few people examining their fingernails, including Speaker Kahle Circe (who, as a High Senator, should really pretend to be more attentive). An excellent announcer — such as Caesar Flickerman — would find something to comment on. But I don't know what to say.

"District Ten is here!" I chirp instead. "Do you think these ones will be special?"

Not one person makes a noise. It isn't surprising. They're tired of sitting all day, and no one cares about this District. Ten traditionally provides tributes who are obnoxiously egoistic; then, they die blandly in the Bloodbath.

Relavi Yavack is a former Master of Forces. (Then he broke his humerus, ripping it apart so badly that it was amputated and replaced with a prosthetic. It's almost impossible to tell his the real and artificial arms apart, though.) Anyway, he never lost his militant persona. He is famous for his booming pep talks and painful slaps on the back.

"District _Ten_!" is his salutation as he marches onstage. Then he turns exactly ninety degrees, faces the microphone, plucks it off the stand, tests it, and nods firmly. "At ease, potential tributes. Enjoy this wonderful day." He extends his arm, bends it, chooses a slip with two fingers, and unfolds it very carefully. "Our female offering is Gypsy Vanner. Present yourself immediately, cadet."

Professionally, she complies. Titian waves swinging over her shoulders and dark blue eyes fiery, she stalks up to the stage. When a girl from the pen in front of her tries to block Gypsy's way, the tribute kicks her. My mouth forms a circle; that was _violent_! When she arrives next to Relavi, she fixes the gathered families with a hard look. The unsaid words hang in the air: _I'm going to win this._

The escort clears his throat, then looks ashamed of himself for uttering the noise. To hide his reddening face, he digs in the other bowl. "And our male offering is Zayn Abadi. Come up right now, young man."

He's slower than Gypsy, but his movement is steady. He's on the third step when a panicked expression crosses his face. He halts for a few seconds, then whips around and races away. I don't know what he's trying to accomplish; only one tribute has ever succeeded in evading the Peacekeepers during the Reaping. The twelve-year-old was found, tortured, and executed publicly. That's what he gets for trying to evade the Capitol!

The Peacekeepers guarding the lines snap to attention, forming a line to block Zayn. He freezes, then bursts into tears. Almost gently, a white-suited individual leads him up the platform and into the Justice Building, followed by Relavi and the girl.

" _Another_ runaway!" I squawk. After a humiliating coughing fit, during which an Avox provides me with a glass of water that slips through my fingers and shatters (ze cleans it up), I'm good to go. "Do you think he'll become friends with Tomer, or even _allies_?"

The crowd claps for the first time since I walked back on. I'll make sure I point out in their interviews that they'd do better if they teamed up; I'm always here to help!

"What do you think at the moment: District Nine or Ten?"

Much less than half of the audience chants their support for the peaceful kids from the grain District, and the rest scream about Ten. This is typical: the pacifists prefer the quiet tributes and everyone normal roots for the feisty ones.

Eleven takes awhile to flash onscreen, which isn't astounding. Almost every year, the rebels make some sort of scene before the Reapings. At some point, President Snow realized that displaying the resulting scuffle between the rebels and the Peacekeepers on live television only convinced other rebel Districts — Three, Seven, and Ten — to follow Eleven's suit. So now the rebels are simply executed before the feed begins. (You'd think they'd just stop acting like imbeciles; they'll never win.)

Sure enough, the projection flickers as District Eleven's square is displayed. The people are quiet, almost grim. No one talks, moves, or utters a peep. It's as though they're all made of wax. The feed goes black, then is restored in full color.

"That took _you_ long enough, President Snow." I roll my eyes, and the throng snickers appreciatively, but they don't laugh the way they do with Caesar. I don't _get_ it.

Eleven's escort is Melananai Kerviousgi, and she _feels_ for her District, probably because they look very similar. Melananai has beautiful bronze skin, an Afro of black curls, and wide dark eyes. She's kind and charismatic and quite popular in the Capitol; I'd give a lot to be friends with her, even though I have the higher status.

But I don't want to be acquainted with her at the moment. The frown on her face signals her displeasure at the way the people of District Eleven have just been treated. And as a Capitolite, she should _never_ have empathy for the Districts, escort or not. I wouldn't be surprised if President Snow found a creative way to punish her for that transgression.

She selects a piece of paper, appearing pained as she opens it. "Maeve Everts," she reads with a sad smile. "Child, walk over here."

The crowd parts to reveal her, a fourteen-year-old dressed in a clean pink dress and work boots. A black shawl is tucked around her shoulders. We all watch as she turns on her heel to run, but a Peacekeeper firmly starts towards her, and that's all it takes for her to face the right way and walk up to the stage.

Melananai offers her an enormous hug, which the tribute melts into, murmuring, "Thank you, ma'am."

"It's alright, honey." The escort plants a kiss on the top of Maeve's head before choosing a male. "Gareth Hunsaven. Come on up to me."

With a resigned shrug and nod, a man winds his way carefully through his pen and to the podium. He backs away from Melananai's arms, but replies when she asks, "How are you feeling, hon?"

He takes the mic, saying slowly, "I hate that this had to happen, but someone must be Reaped every year, and I'm glad it was me instead of the little ones."

The escort places her hand on her heart. "That's wonderful, Gareth, truly."

I make sure that the screen is off before exclaiming, "What a noble tribute! Do you admire his bravery, y'all?"

Nobody seems to care at this point. Most of the children are wriggling in their chairs (the consequence of ingesting too many sweets), while others are snoozing in their parents' laps. Even young Celestia Snow, up in the President's box, kicks the back of her older sister's chair and amuses herself with a tablet.

"I _said_ , do you admire his bravery?"

"Sure!" a teenager yells back, and his friends dissolve into fits of giggles.

Even a few years ago, I would have been insulted by their inattention. I would have taken their apathy as a personal slight, and probably cried onstage. Yes, that's what I _want_ to do now, but I'm won't. (See, Dad, I have grown up.)

Instead, I lean into the microphone. "District Twelve's turn! And then you'll all receive your complimentary gift bags and you can go home!"

That brings a scattered cheer. I watch a child crawl under his seat and across the room. His snoozing parent doesn't even notice that kir toddler has squirmed out of kir arms. I could say something, but what's the point? No one's listening to me anyway.

When District Twelve is shown onscreen, there isn't one bit of applause. The kids grouped in their pens look like moping, malnourished, drab sheep. The only spot of color in the place is Talain Fereloe. Xe is clad as usual in neon green leggings, a white tank top with feathers sprouting from the shoulders, and a freshly dyed cherry-red mohawk. I watch as she crosses the platform and stops in front of the two bowls.

"Well, it's ladies first." She nods affirmatively and digs in the container until she finds a slip that she is comfortable with. "Lexia Golder!"

There is a bit of commotion in the sixteen-year-old pen. The camera zooms in, and I see a girl who I presume is Lexia carefully moving through the other teens, excusing herself repeatedly so as not to step on anyone's feet. When she finally reaches the aisle, she doesn't appear to have any qualms about ascending the steps to the stage. "I'm Lexia," she says with a smile, waving. Nobody in District Twelve or in my studio responds.

Talain purses her lips and exhales when the female is finished. Then she pinches a second paper and recites, "Galious Whit."

It takes a few minutes, but a boy finally makes his way up to the platform. His eyes are crinkled, his teeth clamped down on his tongue, his skin pasty. He's engaged in the same pastime as me: making a valiant effort not to weep in front of the entire nation. As I watch him succeed, two tears escape me. _Shit._

I turn away from the audience, breathing deeply until I'm in control. In the background, I hear Talain requesting that Galious speak about himself, but he declines.

"District Twelve's tributes!" the escort announces, and the Reapings are finally over.

"How do you feel?" I inquire of the audience, relieved that my voice is quite steady. "What are your thoughts about alliances? Who will you be betting on, or sponsoring? Which District has the most promise?" I flip the mic to a gaggle of girls in the center of their row. They argue over who will speak for a while before one with curled black hair and enhanced violet irises stands up.

"I think that Districts One, Two, and Four will be an _incredible_ group this year," she answers smoothly. "And if Aria and that District Eight boy hit it off, then maybe he can join too!"

"What about your favorite District, sweetheart?" I prompt.

She looks appalled that I would even ask. "Two, of course! What else would it be?"

Personally, I detest Two. They're much too brutal for me, but I guess that appeals to some people. "Alright, pass it on," I urge, and to the annoyance of her friends, she hands it to the boy behind her, who winks.

"I agree with Treatia," he adds. "The One-Two-Four pack will be outstanding. There's nothing they're missing this year, and Trilliant's charisma will just add to their power. Unstoppable."

I nod, then gesture towards a young lady a few seats to his left. Reluctantly, he hands over the microphone, and she gets to her feet.

"I'd like to see an alliance with the girls from Seven and Twelve," she says. "Obviously there will be the usual group, but there can be more allies too! They seem like they'd work well together. I _love_ District Seven, and I want them to _win_ this year!"

Whistles and stomps echo through the studio as others agree; after the usual obsession with Districts One, Two, and Four, Seven is usually quite popular.

"Alright, hon, I'm glad to hear it!" I grin at her, then shout, "Who wants to be the last to share?"

 _Finally_ they respond with the cacophony that I've been waiting for. One man in the back shouts himself hoarse and starts pumping his fists. Then he climbs onto his chair, flips off, and almost breaks his neck. "I think we've found our winner!" I proclaim quickly, before anyone else decides to pull their own stunts. "What is your name?"

He puffs out his chest. "I am High Master Brass Kendelle, and I believe that District Four has it in the bag this year."

An enormous roar explodes, and he beams as people cheer for him.

"Thank you for telling us, High Master Kendelle. I'm honored to hear your opinion. Pass the mic back, if you would."

By the time it's in my hand, twenty minutes have passed.

"Thank you for attending the Sixty-Ninth annual Reapings, and have a fabulous night! I heart y'all!" I blow kisses as they pick up their bags and depart. When the last person has left, I slump into a chair and run my hand over my face. These are getting more and more tiring, but at least it's done.

Now the Games will really begin.

* * *

 _I hope you enjoyed the last Reaping chapter! I know you might be wondering why the District sections are getting shorter: it's because there isn't as much to say about the outlying Districts, and because the Capitol doesn't care about them. This is in Claudia's point of view, and she doesn't give any craps about the outliers, as you can presumably tell._

 _Anyway, the next couple of chapters will be goodbyes and train rides, and then it'll begin. But first, I need you to answer all these questions. It's mandatory if you want me to focus on your character at all in the next couple of chapters. And even if you don't have a tribute, tell me anyway!_

 _Which District is your favorite? Which District do you think has the most chance of winning? Which District is your least favorite? Which District do you think has the least chance of winning? Which tribute is your favorite? Which tribute do you think has the most chance of winning? Which tribute is your least favorite? Which tribute do you think has the least chance of winning? What alliances do you want to see? And what are your thoughts overall?_

 _The next chapter might take a bit longer than usual to post because I need to set up a story chart now._

 _Joyana_

 _P.S. If I humbly asked to hit one hundred reviews with this chapter, could you make that happen?_


	7. Goodbyes I

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
.: Goodbyes I :.**

* * *

 **Gypsy Vanner, Seventeen / District Ten Female**

All I want to do is visit my mother and ask her for advice. It's been years since I've visited the cemetery — I'd stopped after Duke Mroziks had followed me there and tackled me over her grave, ripping open my denims and demanding to know what Mama would think of her _beautiful little girl_ now — but in this moment, I'd give anything to talk to her for the last time.

When I die, she's going to hate me for this, for allowing a stupid lad to taint our memories forever. She won't be there to welcome me with open arms; in fact, she'll probably send me to hell. She was always one for holding grudges.

Maybe she'll forgive me, though, because Lord knows she loved Daddy. Everyone says they were perfect opposites: fiery and cautious, optimistic and realistic, intense and calm — fitting together like loop and spoke.

It's possible that Mama will see me and think of him; we have the same coarse red hair and bright blue eyes. But I act like she did, or that's what all the neighbors say anyway. I guess that's why Daddy practically worships me: I'm replacing my mother.

I wonder when he'll come to say goodbye, and what token he'll bring. There are a few necklaces he could give me, including the lucky horseshoe he made himself. I'm hoping for that one; it has a picture of our entire family. I was an infant, while Mama and Daddy were about a quarter of a century. It's the only photo I have of all of us.

But, and not altogether shockingly, Lipi Arnold is my first visitor. She's my best friend, my _sister_. We've known each other since we were in cottons, and maybe even before. I have some hilarious memories of pulling tablecloths out from underneath dishes of beef, hiding in the corners of the paddocks to scare the scat out of the ranchers, kissing each other at age thirteen so that we'd have experience when we wanted to go out with the boys.

That was two months before Duke assaulted me; since then, I haven't even _considered_ making out with anyone. (Well, I've kind of thought about that time I pressed my lips against Lipi's at the field, but that doesn't count. Our attraction isn't romantic. It's so much more than that.)

" _Lord_ , Gypsy." She runs the last few steps, then engulfs me in a bear hug. We tumble onto the overstuffed couch, cuddling against each other. Lipi is warm in all the places I'm cold, and feeling her arms around me is the best thing in the whole entire world. "Why did you push me out of your way? You _know_ I would have volunteered for you!"

Maybe she would have, maybe not. Good intentions don't mean a thing during the clampdown. But I'm thankful nonetheless, and I smile. "Of course you would have, hon. But I'm glad you didn't."

Sure, I wish someone could take my place in the arena. But allowing Lipi to sign her own death sentence just to save me from mine . . . even thinking of it is abhorrent. And now that I'm a tribute, I feel like it was always my destiny. My entire life, culminating in this moment of truth.

Kill or hide.

Survive or die.

Win or lose.

"Gypsy?" Lipi's shaking my shoulder. "Hey. I've only got twenty minutes left with you. Talk to me."

I nestle my head on her shoulder. Her blonde waves brush my nose, and I can't help but grin. "Well, good news: your Reapings are over. Now you're free to marry Talone. Love to the perfect couple."

" _Love to the perfect couple,_ " she scoffs. "Please. The only nice thing about Talone is his money, and there ain't even enough of that. His brother spends it all at the canteen."

This is nothing I haven't heard before; in fact, it's Lipi's favorite topic. I can never tell where she and Talone stand — one moment they're between the sheets, the next one's kicked the other onto the streets — but I do know that her parents expect her to wed him before the year is out.

"You could run," I suggest.

"Where?" she asks bitterly. "Into the slums? South to the desert?"

I can't bear the thought of Lipi alone, or starving, or bleeding to death from a rape or robbery. "Would Miranda's folks let you stay with them until you find an apartment?"

"No. Mama's already told everyone that they're not to harbor me. If I leave, I'm on my own."

"I'd let you live with me," I tell her quietly. It isn't like there's room in the loft I share with Daddy, but I wouldn't mind splitting a mattress with my best friend. We did it often enough when we were younger.

She isn't facing me, but I can hear her smile. "I'd rather marry you than Talone," she murmurs.

My answer comes easily. "Same here, Lipi."

She turns towards me now, opening her mouth to say something. For the first time in years, her pale eyes are completely serious. "I — "

"I'm sorry, Miss, but I must ask you to leave." The Peacekeeper who enters the room has the gentle twang of District Two, so similar to ours. It makes me think that he'll take good care of her.

Lipi blows one last kiss at me as she leaves the room. In response, I tell her that I love her.

I'm still wondering whether she heard me by the time my father bursts inside.

" _Darling._ " He extends his arms, wrapping me against his muscular body. "This wasn't supposed to happen. After your mother . . . how could they take _you_ away too?"

The thought hasn't even crossed my mind that I'm the last person he has. Yeah, there are guys he hangs out with at the canteen, and his farming buddies, and sometimes we're invited to dinner at the Arnolds' house (though that's becoming rare now that they're trying to shove Lipi out of their home and into Talone's). But I'm the only one who _loves_ him.

There is a wet patch on my shoulder and I know he's crying, small sobs that he's doing his best to mask lest I break down too. It would be terrible to be seen weeping on Capitol camera; I won't be a tribute that shows weakness.

Instead, I embrace him tighter. "Daddy, I'll come back to you. You know that. All I need is some rope and I'm the Victor. Simple as that."

He looks at me for a long moment, biting his bottom lip.

"Spit it out," I tease, faking a grin. It's what I always say when he suddenly grows quiet, and not uttering the words now will just convince him that I'm a dead woman walking.

"The Careers," he sputters, hiccuping. "Trained . . . and deadly. It's horrifying. Seven with their axes, and Three with their technology and mines and bombs. You don't watch the Games, Gypsy, you don't know."

That happens to be true. The odds that I'd be chosen were just so small that I never concerned myself with staring at the blood covered screen. During mandatory viewing, I'd stand in the back with Lipi. Sometimes we just wouldn't go.

"There's nothing we can do," I reply, making an enormous effort to match my usual flippant tone. Then, so I won't have to do that anymore, I whisper, "Did you bring my token?"

A flash of panic crosses his face, and for a second I feel ridiculously selfish that I asked him for something as trivial as a _District token_ when I'm about to leave for my death. But then he pats down his pockets and finds the small plastic box. "How could I not, sweetheart?"

Sure enough, it's the necklace I wanted. I don't open the pendant, but I run my index finger over the carved metal. "Thank you, Daddy."

For the last time, he slips an arm around my shoulders. "I love you, Gypsy. You're amazing, beautiful, and so much like your mother. Draw your strength from her, princess."

"I will," I promise, and lean against him for the four minutes I have before the Peacekeeper arrives once more, this time to escort my only parent away forever.

I watch the door for a long time, wondering if I'll have another visitor. I'm prepared for Duke to break in, or even one of the girls from school to wish me goodbye and good luck. But I'm alone.

Sighing, I sink into the plush couch. There are knots in my thighs and lower back, but there's no point in stretching. They'll come back the second I catch sight of my military sergeant of an escort.

For some crazy reason, I'd been convinced that I was invincible.

I'd thought that I would survive the Reapings, that normal girls didn't get picked for the Hunger Games, that there was no reason for me to be chosen. Almost every year, a descendant of some famous District rebel — Joanne Mythe (who seemed to have more children than is humanly possible; half the people here claim to be somehow related to her), or Dennis Roan, or Alexandre Amwitz — is selected. I'm not one of those; in fact, I'm ashamed to admit that most of my family fought on the side of the Capitol. Whether it was under their own conviction or if they thought it would earn them points with their oppressors, I'm not sure. I don't care.

But it doesn't change the fact that this is why I'm a tribute: I had the audacity to assume I was safe.

* * *

 **Crest Remington, Fifteen / District Five Female**

My sister tells me that I'm not good at managing my feelings, that I bottle everything up and then I explode when someone confronts me. It's because I deal with too much _stress_ , she says. Over the years, I've figured out that it always begins the same way: a nauseous stomach and a throbbing pain in my head as the world starts to spin.

I collapse onto the couch, wanting to curl into a ball but afraid that I might roll off the cushions if I do. Plus, what if someone comes in and sees me shaking in the fetal position? They're going to think I'm _weak_ , and I'm not.

At least, I hope I'm not.

I'm fast, and I can find an alliance. I've never been the best at dealing with people, and most of the time I'm too introverted to keep friends for very long, but I'll be able to force that down. I'm going to have to, if I want to survive. District Five hasn't had a Victor in a decade, and the only reason Venture won was because her allies protected her.

I think of finding a friend during training, someone to rely on. Another girl who would be willing to deal with me when I give her shit, who would help me through my fears. And in return, I'd put on a happy face and carry out the kills that they'd be afraid to. And then, when it came down to it, I'd stab them in their sleep. To other Districts, ones that are proud of their so-called _honor_ , that might be considered cowardly. But in Five, any way out of the Hunger Games is a good one. We aren't exactly known for our fair play here.

The door crashes open against the wall. Deena's face is a mixture of pain, relief, gratitude, and pure anger. Her expressions have always conveyed exactly what she feels. When she speaks, her voice rises about an octave with each word. "Why would you volunteer for me?"

Is this the moment to tell her the truth?

I could.

After this, there will be no more time.

But I don't have to.

Deena falls down next to me. We don't usually sit this close; she loves cuddling and hugs, but I prefer cool smiles from across the table while we're mostly busy with something else. And my choice of friendship always wins, because she doesn't want to argue with me. Which is funny, because she fights with everyone.

"I have to talk to you about something, Crest," she says suddenly, and her voice is uncharacteristically soft. "When you volunteered for me, I realized." She takes a deep breath, and this is the first time I dare to think that whatever the hell I'm feeling for her, she's feeling too. "You're . . . "

I blurt it out before she has to. "I love you, Deena."

She jolts backwards. "What? _What?_ "

The familiar sear of panic cuts across my stomach and up through my heart. I've done something wrong, I've embarrassed myself, I'll never get over this as long as I live. (Not that I'll be alive for more than another two weeks, or anything.) "As . . . as a friend, I mean. I love you as a friend." Each stammering word hurts as it escapes my mouth.

She looks interested, maybe a bit flattered. But there's nothing else: no spark in her eyes, no flash of teeth as she smiles. The electric tingle that I feel every time she glances at me is not shared by her.

There's a rule on all the posters in the District factories. It hangs on doors and walls, in each nook and cranny, above every lab table and machine. It's the rule that all of our theories are based off of. _It is physically impossible for one object to be attracted to another of the same without the latter being likewise attracted to the first._

Let me tell you: it's a lie.

Deena is the only person I'm not related to who can actually deal with me for longer than a couple of months. But our connection has broken: she's purposely put space between us, and she's staring at me in disbelief. "I was going to say that you're my best friend, Crest. That's all."

Deena's popular; she attends parties and festivals. She's surrounded by other workers during her shifts, and she walks home with an enormous group of girls every night. They laugh and grin, passing inside jokes back and forth like bribes at a Capitol party. I was her afterthought, the person she visited when she didn't understand an assignment, or if she couldn't keep a friend's secret any longer. And I fell in love with her.

And then we starting spending time together, at each other's houses or in Watts Park. Soon she was talking to me about everything she couldn't tell anyone else. I didn't share my own words in response; I was content to listen to her speak, to watch her expressive brown eyes and full pink lips and thick braids swinging against her smooth cheeks.

That wasn't enough. Nothing ever is.

She's standing up now, backing towards the doors. She's brave enough to make eye contact, even to paste on a nervous smile. But she's too cowardly to say a word as she leaves.

I curl against the arm of the couch, tracing circles on the soft velvet. I focus on the facts: after silk, this fabric is the most expensive in Panem. It's imported from Eight. Every year, Alyson de Greene of District One — Victor of the Sixtieth Hunger Games; the least vicious Career anyone has ever seen — wears a dress sewn from the material.

I'm crying as my mother enters the room. When she finds me in tears, she immediately sits down next to me, stroking my tangled hair off my face. "Baby," she whispers. "Can you tell me?"

"Mère," I murmur, and now I'm in her arms and _sobbing_. I'm not sure whether it's because of Deena or the shock of the Reapings or the fact that I'll be thrown into the Hunger Games arena in a matter of days, but I do know that I can't talk to her about any of it. I love her, of course, but judging by the amount of time she spends in our house, it would surprise me if she even knows who Deena _is_.

"Nell wants to say goodbye to you on her own, so I can't be very long," she says, and takes a deep breath. "But it's long past time for me to apologize, Crest. Since . . . since your father died, it's been hard to support both of you, and it meant that I couldn't spend time with my daughters. And I'd like to say I regret it, but I don't. You and Nell had each other, and the money to survive in a cruel world. And since we couldn't have everything, that's what I'd have asked for if I had a choice. I missed watching you both grow up, but I love you all the same and I know you'll do the best you can."

I squeeze her tighter. "You were taking care of us, Mère. It's okay that you were't _there_. You did your best, and I love you for it." I'm not sure those last words are true. I don't resent any of it; she did what she had to do and she certainly provided us with all the things she could. But I barely know her. How can you love someone who you haven't spoken more than ten words to in the last year?

We each know that I'm lying.

With one last sad smile, my mother nods and stands. At the last second, I think she turns back to look at me, but I'm staring at the wall, and I can't talk about this anymore anyway.

As Nell stands in the doorway, a Peacekeeper informs her that she has exactly half an hour to say all the words in both our hearts. (She was always better at speaking.)

But when my sister comes inside, she doesn't even speak at first. Instead, she lifts me off the sofa and leads me to the window. As we watch the rain pour down, streaming in silver ribbons down the hills, she braids my hair and repeats all the lessons she's ever taught me.

"You're strong, Crest. You're beautiful. You're smart. You're proud. You're _not_ lesser than the other tributes, and you're worth a thousand times more than any Capitolite. And you _know_ it." She runs her hands over the top of my head, gently tilting me back so she can tighten the weave.

"Don't let them objectify you, or hurt you, or call you names. You're not _anything_ they say you are. You hear me?" At my nod, she continues. "Flaunt it if you choose to, but never let them buy it. People like to take away pieces of others. You're whole. Don't hesitate to strike if they touch you first."

I remember the first time she told me that; it was three years ago, when the boy I would have done anything for ordered me to drop my panties if I wanted him to take me on a date. He chased me as I ran home crying, shouting that I'd won, that I'd only have to take off my top if I liked that better.

"Be gracious, Crest. Be kind. Be better than they are. Show them that the Districts aren't the ones with the problem." She pauses as she secures an elastic around the last braid. "I love you."

"Nell." I don't want to weep again, but now I'm hoping that my gratefulness glitters in my eyes. I need her to know how much she's helping me. I need her to know how much I care about her. I need her to know that I'm so damn happy she's my sister.

The thoughts form in my head, fixing themselves together like puzzle pieces.

But I've never been able to make them into words.

* * *

 **Evelyn Summers, Eighteen / District Seven Female**

There is a video of me that's still making the rounds in the Capitol: I'm nine years old, made of sun kissed skin and tangled brown hair and wide olive eyes. My sister has just been murdered by the District One female. I inform the reporter that if I ever meet someone from the luxury District, I'll chop them into tiny pieces. Then I tell her to go screw herself.

In the other film — since the Capitol has decided that I provide _such_ interesting entertainment — I'm thirteen, at mandatory viewing. It's the sixth day of the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, and two tributes from Seven have reached the Final Eight. The Careers are hunting. Four minutes ago, they finished torturing the girl from Twelve. (She's lying in a puddle of her own urine, feces, and blood. They couldn't even find the mercy to kill her.) Now they're chasing the Sevens: Amy Lamont, a resilient sixteen-year-old who already murdered both her other allies, and my brother. It's barely a fight: Amy takes a swing at the District Two male and receives a clean stroke across her neck. The boy from One grabs Carter and rips him apart limb from limb. I'm forced to watch twenty minutes of torture before the retching starts and I'm excused. (After all the journalists get their perfect shots, of course.) This time, I swear that I will run away to One and set the entire District on fire.

When you make a promise, the gods expect you to carry it out.

I'm a hundred percent sure that I've been Reaped for this exact purpose: I said that I would be the person to kill the Ones, and now my honesty is being tested. Every person in Seven receives a challenge from the gods. It could be two minutes after you're born, it could be ten seconds before you die. But it always happens.

This is mine.

I can already feel the tomahawk in my hand, smooth against my skin as I sneak up behind the Careers. I cock my wrist back, narrowing my eyes. The wind rushes past me as I release the weapon and —

"Please!" someone shouts. There's a commotion in the hallway outside my room. I scramble to my feet and rip the doors open to find my family scattered outside. My mother is pleading with the Peacekeepers, gesturing wildly at my remaining siblings, who are crowded behind her. Evan, my stepfather, holds them back with one arm and a reproachful stare. "We just want to say goodbye to her, as a family, _please_."

"Sorry, ma'am, but there is a limit of five at once."

"How can you expect me to choose who gets to see their sister before she . . . " Suddenly, Mom's eyes lock with mine, and she changes her question. "What if Evelyn comes out here?"

"Against protocol, ma'am."

Another guard steps forwards. "You're taking up your minutes. If you move quickly, it's possible that you can fit the entire family in the allotted frame. You have thirteen fifteenths of an hour remaining."

Frantically, Mom grabs the hands of my youngest siblings, yanking Rowan and Lily inside. There is a quick scuffle over who will follow, and Ash and Birch end up winning.

Mom lets Birch close the door as she cups my face in her hands. "My sweet flower. My garden."

Whenever my mother uses these strange pet names — relics left over from her childhood — Ash cracks a sarcastic remark. I almost wish he would make one now, just to help us all feel normal. But he doesn't even nudge Birch, or snicker behind his hands.

Rowan climbs onto my lap; Lily squats next to my knee.

"You have such deep roots, Evelyn, such a strong trunk."

Gods, if Ash doesn't laugh, I'm going to.

"You soar like a bird, run like a coyote."

The giggles bubble up in my throat. Rowan places his hand on my twitching chin and snorts. His fingers tickle my skin, and it only takes that for me to start heaving with laughter. Then Birch joins in. Ash just stares, shaking his head incredulously. He took Carter's loss harder than any of us; I think he wishes he volunteered.

My mother is scandalized. "Evelyn. What . . . why in the world are you laughing?"

It takes me a moment to think of a good answer. "Because what else is there to do, Mom?"

She kisses me quickly, once on each cheek. "I love you, but I can't watch this." The second she leaves the room, Ash takes that as his cue to do the same. Birch nods at me, solemnly, before following suit. Willow and Fern replace them.

"What's so funny?" Fern wants to know as she takes a seat in an armchair.

I shake my head weakly. "Nothing, Fern. Kids, calm down." I pat Rowan and Lily on the head a few times, and they settle into their spots. "I just . . . I don't know what to say."

"That you'll miss us while you're away in the Capitol?" Lily suggests.

"Of course, Lil. And you, Rowan. And Willow. And Fern."

"Why am I last?" Fern demands, pouting.

If I say I was saving the best for the end, Lily and Rowan will have tantrums. "Because that's how the leaves fell, Fern."

She sticks her tongue out at me, then winks. "Good luck, Evelyn. I'll send Daddy in."

I smile at her, then lift Rowan and Lily off of me so I can hug Willow. I don't pick favorites, but mine would be her. "Thank you so much. For everything."

Willow knows exactly what I'm talking about. "I'll take the kids," she says, and leads my youngest siblings out of the room. Rowan waves his sticky fingers at me, and Lily blows a kiss.

Evan makes his way in. The triplets are with him.

"What a day, hon," he says softly.

"Yeah," I agree, just as quietly. I'm tired, and I think my stepfather knows that because he only utters a few more words before adding, "I'll let the girls say goodbye. You know how talented you are, Evelyn, and I'm sure you're aware of your gods-assigned duty."

I worry my lip between my teeth as I exhale. "Yes."

He smiles at me. "That's all you need. Think of us when you're in trouble, think of the gods. You have nothing to worry about, Evelyn."

Raina, Layla, and Brooke are three mockingjays in a nest. They're in perfect sync as they flounce to the couch opposite me, settle in, and smooth their coarse brown skirts over their legs.

Layla has always been their elected declarer, and today is no different. But instead of speaking in chirps, as she is wont to do, she sighs. "Are you ready, Evelyn?"

What can I say to three thirteen-year-olds? "As I'll ever be."

"That's not true," Brooke pipes up. "You'll have three days of training."

"You think I'm showing off my skills in training, silly? Look, don't be disappointed if my score is low. I won't be sharing anything spectacular; that'll be saved for the Games. Tell the others."

She sits up straighter, happy that I've given her something to report to the rest of the family. "I will!"

Layla is the first to give me a hug, but the other two quickly do the same. As prissy as the triplets can be, they're absolutely amazing at sharing love when it's needed. An aura of comfort surrounds me. "Thank you. I love you."

A Peacekeeper shoves his head inside. "Time's up. There's a group of kids waiting outside; they've only got half an hour total. Make it fast."

Once again, I look out. It's my boyfriend, along with the three teenagers I call my best friends. I don't know how to pick, and thankfully I don't have to. Connor runs past and shuts the door quickly. He's sweaty and his green shirt is untucked, but his dark eyes glimmer with joy.

"I was going to propose to you after the Reapings, Evelyn, but I think I'll have to do it now."

My heart drops from my chest to my stomach, then leaps into my throat. My hands fly to my mouth as he drops to one knee and supplies a tiny box.

"It isn't much, but," he opens it, revealing a thin band of copper, "will you be my wife when you come back?"

It's an enormous step. There's a very real possibility that I won't be returning to District Seven, and Connor won't ever be able to marry again. In Seven, it doesn't matter whether or not your spouse is alive; the Book Of The Gods states clearly that one may never wed more than once. "Are you sure?"

There is the world in his eyes as he looks into mine. "Do you think I'd have asked otherwise?"

And my lips are on his and he's falling with me onto the sofa and my dress is pulled over my head and suddenly everything is happening too quickly but it's also gorgeous and wonderful and he's everything that I ever wanted and of _course_ I'll marry him because there's no other choice.

"You wouldn't be the first," a voice mumbles irritably a while later. "Now pull yourself together, young man. This tribute has exactly three minutes to bid these people farewell."

Annoyed, Connor redoes his belt and adjusts my dress. His hands slide over the small of my back. "I'm in love with you," he whispers, and then he's gone.

Rose, Cate, and Reo file in quickly.

"We know what you were _doing_ ," Rose teases, smirking.

"Yeah, you _would_ know all about that," I retort, staring pointedly at her hand, which is entwined with Reo's.

"Let's not hear any more about their relationship, please," Cate begs. "Gods know it's all my parents talk about. _When will you be with someone like Reo? Why has Rose had twice the amount of partners as you?_ "

"Ah, Cate, they're looking out for you. It's sweet. I wish my parents would do that," Rose says.

"The grass is always greener," I shrug.

"I can't believe you're leaving." Rose's grin turns upside down. "What if we never see you again?"

She's the first one to acknowledge the subject head on, to my face, and I can't help but be grateful. "You'll know that it's okay. I'll be going to meet the gods, and I'll be fulfilling my challenge."

"Really?" Rio's eyes widen. "What is it?"

"To kill the tributes from One, of course."

"The train will leave in five minutes," the Peacekeeper declares. "I must ask all visitors to return to their respective positions."

Even before they've departed, my daydreams consist of murdering the Careers brutally and with no remorse at all.

* * *

 _I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was a bit difficult to begin writing in the tributes' points of view, but once I started it became much more fun than writing through Claudia's eyes. (Though I will be revisiting the Capitolites from time to time, as the story will focus a fair bit on them too.)_

 _Also, a quick note: I've changed all of these tributes' characteristics at least a little, and I will be altering the rest. Some will be more different from their forms than others. I warned you about this when you submitted, and everyone accepted the terms. If you have a problem with the circumstances that I've tweaked, feel free to PM me and I'll see what I can do. (Don't leave it in your review, though; don't let all the readers know secrets about your tribute!)_

 _If you do decide to review, here are some questions: which one of these three was your favorite? Which do you think has the most chance of winning? Which is your least favorite? Which has the least chance of winning? Which character do you like the best and why? Which point of view was written the best? And, as usual, what do you think of the story as a whole?_

 _Thank you so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows. I do know I nag a bit, but I love so much hearing from all of you. Please, please keep it up!_

 _Joyana_


	8. Goodbyes II

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
.: Goodbyes II :.**

 **Galious Whit, Seventeen / District Twelve Male**

I'm starting to regret the fact that I wouldn't talk when Talain asked. Already, nobody pays attention to the tiny District over two thousand miles away from the Capitol. And I didn't give them anything to remember me by.

I can already see that this'll be another year when Twelve goes down in the Bloodbath. Because it _isn't_ really about the Capitol, no matter how much they don't care about us. It's about the _tributes_ , who are falling into their traps by remaining scared and silent when they don't have to. And I just did it too.

Of course I manage to fuck up the most important first impression of my life.

I suppose I still have the parade, and the interviews, and the Games. Although it's hard to believe that Haymitch Abernathy will go out of his way to find sponsors. He's probably already on the train, drowning in his whiskey. Maybe if he suffocates, they'll find me a new mentor.

In spite of myself, I laugh. It would be fitting if Abernathy died on the tribute train. A fair trade for all the kids he was supposed to see through when he was downing his tenth glass of Capitol wine.

I know I shouldn't think this way. I'm going to need him when I'm in the arena, freezing or starving or utterly dehydrated. Yet it's a bit hard to believe he'll even be watching me.

Unsurprisingly, my goodbyes aren't ceremonial.

My family comes in first. Mother and Father walk side by side, clasped hands swinging between their bodies. They're clinging to one another like they're each other's lifelines. Noah follows them, dragging his feet. It's all a bit stereotypical and dramatic, at least in my opinion. But then again, I haven't ever been waiting in this room, so I have no way of knowing for sure.

Father looks at Mother, and she returns his overwhelmed expression. They care, definitely, but they're not at home a lot. And when they are, they're more interested in making up for time spent apart than either of their sons. They probably don't know the first thing to say to me. And it's not like Father can call up one of his contacts and ask him what to tell his Reaped child. There isn't a manual for that.

"Hey, Galious." Noah shifts his weight from foot to foot, not meeting my eyes. We're close, but not enough to have a deep discussion right before I leave for the Hunger Games. "I'm sorry you got Reaped."

"Me too," I agree before scooting over, allowing him a spot on the loveseat. "That's what happens when you take out tesserae." There's a common misconception in Twelve that working as a merchant instead of a miner somehow means that you're rich enough to not worry about food. We may have less papers in the bowl than the Seam teenagers who are supporting an entire family, but not by much.

"I won't," he proclaims, and it's probably true. I take two a year, fifty percent less than my maximum of four. Noah's never been allowed to. He's the baby of the family, I have responsibilities as the older brother, et cetera et cetera. This time, I had eighteen Reaping slips.

"We shouldn't have asked you to," Mother sobs, and now she's rushing over and squeezing me so tightly that my stomach hurts. "We could have done something else, kept the store open longer. It was only ten hours a day; we should have extended it!"

"It's no use weeping over coal dust, Veera." Father massages her shoulders as she cries on mine. Just like Noah, he doesn't look at me, because that would mean he has to say something and he probably doesn't know what. "We should go."

"We just got here!" my brother declares. "We have to stay with Galious until the very last minute. I will."

I'm not sure whether I'm grateful for or annoyed by his proclamations. He's cute, I'll give him that, but this is a bit much. _He's_ not the one who has to play the role of martyr.

My mother looks into my eyes before nodding slowly. "I think . . . that would be best, Devin. You'll be okay without us, won't you, Galious?"

What, am I supposed to take them with me to the Capitol? "I don't exactly have a choice, Mother."

Her last sob escapes in a raw huff. I've done it right: been just insolent enough that they feel justified in leaving early. There's no reason for them to be in pain just because I am, and their clouded eyes are only making me feel worse anyway.

Noah reaches his hand out, prepared to lock pinkies. I think it used to be a symbol of a promise, or maybe a secret. But now it's District Twelve's traditional farewell, a tiny movement that translates to _I'll care about you while you're gone_.

I hold my grim smile until they exit, then let it melt. I love all three of them, but there are people I care about more, and they should be showing up very soon.

Sure enough, about three minutes later, Grant Moor and Davidson Brackeet are strolling through the door and pouncing on me. Grant's slaps on the back hurt worse; after all, he's a Seam boy and they've taught him to fight. Davidson is much more tame, a few pokes and prods and he calls it a day.

"How're you holding up?" Davidson wants to know. He settles on the seat across from me, kicking his legs up so they rest on mine. "Have you talked to Fereloe yet? Piece of ass, that one."

I roll my eyes and dig my knuckles into his anklebone. "Do you _know_ how old that escort is?"

"Twenty-two, actually." Davidson winks. "I heard her talking to the drunk."

He means my mentor. "I'm surprised she would sink that low."

"More like Abernathy's got his standards up ten miles too high," Grant quips, laughing. "Probably tried to seduce her with a handle of scotch and that pocketknife he's always carrying around. Paranoid asshole."

Davidson shrugs. "Doesn't surprise me. The Games are supposed to have a funky way of fucking up the Victors. And then the appearances, and the mentoring . . . I'm not surprised he's crazy."

"He was probably insane way before he was Reaped," Grant suggests with a chuckle.

I shrug. Shit talking my mentor won't accomplish anything, and I feel bad considering I'm about to rely on the guy to pull me out of the arena.

As usual, as Grant cracks a joke about something that involves sucking and glass bottles, Davidson picks up on my mood. Swinging his feet off my knees, he says, "Look, Galious, I've got a few credits left over from Alana's wedding gift. I'll set up a sponsor collection for you. We're going to get you home."

As I'm about to grin and thank him — even though it never crossed my mind that he wouldn't do exactly that — a Peacekeeper pushes the doors open. "You are within your rights to spend your remaining fifteen minutes with these men, but there is a young lady waiting outside for a chance to say goodbye."

The girl is Koli. We've dated for over twelve months now, and I've been saving up to propose to her after next year's Reaping. After I win the Games, that won't even be a problem. She'll move straight into the Victor's Village with me, and we'll be able to raise a family.

"Sorry to kick you boys out, but — "

"Say no more!" Grant smirks.

"Enjoy the _consummation_ of your _love_." Davidson blows a kiss at me. I pretend to catch it and hurl it back at him. He ducks and trips over his untied shoelaces.

"I'll be waiting for that sponsor gift!" I shout over their peals of laughter.

Koli is a welcome replacement. As great as my friends are, she's the love of my life, the one I want to be with forever. And I utter those words with total sincerity.

I wrap my arms around her waist, and she responds by placing her hands on my shoulders. Our lips meet softly, none of the usual squirming and fighting that she's always been into.

"Babe," she murmurs, her pale hazel eyes — she likes to tell people she inherited them from her ancestors up north, but the only thing up there is District Thirteen, and that's been bombed into oblivion — boring into mine. "I don't know what I'm ever going to do when you're not here."

I get what she means. Suffering through the Games without Koli by my side is going to be unbearable. "You'll wait for me to come back, of course."

A tiny smile plays across her gorgeous lips. "You're damn right, I will."

"Don't let Davidson charm you into anything. He doesn't know what he's doing when he's drunk."

She peppers kisses down my neck. I feel her whisper, "I promise, Galious."

"You're always welcome at my house if you want to watch the Games with my family."

Her delicate hands flit over my collarbone and neck before settling on my chest. "I know."

"I love you."

"I love you too," she murmurs, and I push my fingers through her dark blonde hair. The kiss is long and gentle and everything it usually _isn't_ and I know without a doubt that she is the person I will miss most in the world.

When the Peacekeeper tells her to leave, I collapse back onto the sofa. My own lips are puffy and a bit sore, but I wouldn't have traded my last few minutes before I leave for the Capitol for anything.

* * *

 **Huud Lamynt, Eighteen / District Six Male**

I don't know what to do with the gun. It's tucked into the waistband of my pants, the outline clearly visible against the fabric of my black shirt. The Peacekeepers don't care about licenses and privileges, not in Six. There are too many people involved in one illegal trade or another for them to apprehend everybody.

But somehow I don't think they'd appreciate a tribute showing up in the Capitol with a pistol. I don't quite know what they would do to me — at this point, their usual method of murdering anyone who bothered them would be a bit redundant — but I wouldn't put it past them to drop me into the arena with a few cleverly disguised broken limbs.

I could pass it off to Axle and Cather when they come to see me — if they even do; it's entirely possible they're taking advantage of the day off to chase down debtors — but it's likely that they'll be searched when they leave the Justice Building. They look damn dangerous, and the Capitol can't take too many precautions with their precious tributes.

 _Shit._

I carry the gun everywhere. (You can't be a teenage orphan in District Six and not have a reliable way of defending yourself. _Especially_ not if you're in with people like Axle.) If I hadn't brought it with me to the Reapings, it would have been stolen by the time I returned to the house, and I probably would have been shot by one of Clamp's people anyway. And I hadn't even _considered_ the possibility of being Reaped. I knew I still had to stand in the eighteen-year-old pen and wait for Beauty Fluenta to call the names, but I'd sort of forgotten that I was actually eligible to be a tribute.

A few yards down, I can hear my District partner's door opening. She's already had about three groups of visitors, but I think this one is her family. Her Pa is shouting something about _unfair_ and _haven't they done enough already_.

With a flash of awareness, I remember the girl's surname: Baecker. She arrived here some years ago. It took a while to figure out that they were from the Capitol, but once the rumor spread, they were consistently ignored. Some of the gangs took it upon themselves — we blame Clamp's people, they blame us; all I know is that I personally wasn't involved — to sabotage them. Regularly, we'd wake up to Mr. Baecker's screams as he found the door off its hinges, the curtains torn down, or (memorably) a knife and a threatening note on his front stoop. Then his son was Reaped for the Games (he died in the Bloodbath) and they were left alone. Nobody was going to be the asshole who bothered them after that.

Now they're facing their nightmare all over again.

Outside my own door, the Peacekeepers are called to attention. I don't know how the tributes in other Districts are being guarded, but five per room seems a bit excessive. I've always loathed the rhythmic pounding of platform boots, but I don't mind this time because it means that Axle and Cather are actually coming to see me before I leave.

A little while later, they're both inside.

"They're only giving us twenty minutes," Axle spits. "They're saying that searching us counts as ten. Fucking douche bags."

Cather snaps her rubber chew. "I just want to know why the fuck they bother. Who cares what we give to you? They'll just confiscate it in the _Capitol_."

The girl's got a point, and I'd tell her so except that I'm petrified of her. Living half on the streets of Six and half in Axle's whore-slash-morphling-slash-murder house, I'm not scared of much. But Cather was my Watcher when Axle first recruited me, and she was a harsh bitch. Still is, but not to me anymore. It doesn't matter.

Axle picked me up eight years ago, after his gang killed my parents for their debt. Apparently, Pa owed him so big for his morphling habit that the only way he could afford to pay was with his life. They wouldn't have done my Ma in too, except that she was right there and screaming for the Peacekeepers. But even Axle has a policy against murdering children, so they took me in. And now I'm here, running menial errands and passing out the occasional syringe in exchange for sleeping at the gang's place Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every two out of three weekends. It's a sweet deal here in Six, and I won't complain.

"We can't stay very long, man. Just stopped in to say we're sorry about this shit." Axle's bitter gesture encompasses the room.

Cather rolls her eyes at him. It's a move that only she can get away with, and even so his hands twitch as he watches her. "He's a pussy. We wanted to know if you have anything on you. We're down three on a powder order and Morin's skipped town."

I pat the pockets of my jeans and make a face. "Sorry, you two. The only place there'd be stuff is the safe behind the dresser in the hall, but Morin knew about that."

Cather cracks her knuckles. "We'll have to chase him down, then. Let's go, Axle. All the best, Huud."

"Wait!" I blurt out.

"What?" Axle demands, brushing a chunk of greasy hair out of his colorless eyes.

"Since I don't need it anymore . . . " I extend the pistol Cather gave me when she first deemed me useful on a mission. "Here."

"Thanks, man, but you'd better hide it in here." He kneels and slips the gun under the couch. "We'll sneak in and grab it in a week or so."

Axle turns on his heel and exits. As she follows, Cather doesn't even acknowledge me, but I still nod respectfully as she files out. It's hard to get that kind of thing out of your system when it's been ingrained for years.

I'm not expecting anyone else. Nobody other than Axle's gang knows or cares about my existence, and he and Cather have already visited. Harper, who's technically the leader although she's been missing in action more often than not lately, would never trouble herself with saying goodbye to me. It would have been nice of Morin to pop his head in, but I guess now that he's turned eighteen he's decided to make a run for it. (I have no idea where he thinks he's going.) And a visit from Ora would have been amazing, but I doubt she even recognized me at the Reapings.

But we do know a surprising amount of things about each other: she kept track of the days I slept at Axle's place, which room I'm in, what positions I like. And I returned the favor: I've memorized her usual orders, her preference for pills over injections; she tells me of her hatred for working in the brothel even as she writhes on my bed.

I don't need her to come and fuck me. All I want is her presence, her dark hair cascading over her neck in soft waves, her shining eyes looking into mine. I haven't talked with anyone the way I have with her, not even when Ma and Pa were alive.

I watch the door, hoping that maybe _someone_ will spontaneously decide they care about me, but no luck. The Peacekeepers change positions every few minutes, and I'm guessing the Baecker girl's family is still in there with her. Obnoxiously, tears spring to my eyes and I swipe them away. _Way to be a little shit._

I have it good for an orphan in Six. Most of the gangs don't care about the adolescents they leave on the street, which is how so many grow up to be addicts or criminals or both. But I was given shelter and food and a potential source of income, if I participated in the trade, and that's a hell of a lot more than the vast majority of kids here are offered.

I'm grateful, honestly. And I have no idea why I'm obsessed with thinking about Ma and Pa; they were so dependent on the drugs that they weren't even aware of my existence. Or maybe it was only Pa; I think Ma worked at the station just to escape the house. But in the end, she got caught up anyway. Most of the wives do.

Over half of District Six citizens have two dead parents by the time they're free of the Reapings; I think the statistic is something like fifty-eight percent. Axle's Pa died of starvation before he was one; his Ma struggled, then panicked, then picked up and left a couple of years after. Cather was raised by an aunt who abandoned her before her ninth birthday. Morin refuses to even discuss his family.

I'm not special.

In comparison — if you don't count being Reaped for the Hunger Games — I've been lucky. Food, water, a roof over my head on alternating days, and as much safety as Six can provide. Axle even offered to let me stay on as a full runner if I wanted, and I'd accepted. It really, truly doesn't get any better than that.

I guess I'm just melodramatic because I've been Reaped; there isn't another explanation for my current idiocy. All I know is that I'd better pull it together fast, because otherwise I'll be the first one dead off the pedestal during the Bloodbath.

* * *

 **Alessio Donati, Eighteen / District One Male**

I don't understand how the tributes before me have waited alone in this room for the required half hour.

I've just volunteered for the Hunger Games! I'm about to join the traditional alliance! My entire future is laid out in front of me, never clearer than it is at this second. I want to sing, to dance, to cheer, to turn handsprings on the carpeted floor.

Instead, I'm alone. The District Academy for Excellence in Youth Development (or the Death Association for the Education of Young Destroyers, depending on who you ask) — also affectionately known as the DAEYD — insists on thirty minutes of meditation before the tribute can be visited by their family, friends, significant others, or mentors. We're expected to collect our thoughts, to prepare ourselves for the turmoil of the Games.

But I'm finding it damn difficult to calm myself down.

Instead, I relive the glorious moment when I raced for the stage, shoving Geoffrey van Callen off the stairs and out of my way. I kind of wish I'd broken his spine, but I have to settle for the fact that he can't ever volunteer for the Games; this was his last Reaping. It's not quite payback for what he did to me, but it's close as I'll ever get. At least until I'm a Victor and I can demand that he be executed.

I focus on my breathing, pretend that I'm trying to fall asleep. _In, two three four. Out, two three four. In, two three four. Out, two three four._

It's not working.

I was awful at relaxation techniques at the DAEYD. So terrible, in fact, that they were considering disqualifying me from the traditional male sprint at the Reapings. No one wants to deal with a tribute who can't unwind during the Games. So I faked it, managing well enough that even Terra "Terror" Kelley (Victor of the Fifty-Seventh Hunger Games — mountains with almost no oxygen at such a high elevation — with five kills, one direct assist, and a wicked ability with the cleaver) submitted my name for clearance. And once Terror is willing to stand in support of you, you've made it.

I check my watch. I have three-hundred-and-sixty seconds before they allow my father inside. He'll get forty-five minutes with me, though it's doubtful that he'll take up all of it. He knows how important it is for me to see my mentors before I board the train, since it's such a short ride from here to the Capitol. And I'll be coming back anyway, so it isn't a big deal. Then my friends will get thirty — though likewise, the most they'll need is ten — and the mentor team will have the rest of the time.

Two-hundred-and-fifty.

I stretch back on the couch, running my fingers through my short dark hair. The cut is choppy because of an accident with a sword and a highly skilled rookie a few years ago, but I don't mind. I think it makes me look tough, though Anastasia says it's stupid.

Ninety.

And _finally_.

Just like me, Papa spent his younger years at the DAEYD. But they didn't deem him talented enough to go into the Games, and only in District Two are trainees dispatched to become Peacekeepers. Instead, he received a cushy office job in the Capitol Liaison's office, where he was able to utilize his passion with numbers. From there, he met my mother and had me. Then we lost her to breast cancer that was diagnosed too late. The Capitol has ways to deal with that, but they don't share their methods with the Districts, not even One. Soon after, he was fired for drinking on the job. So when he says, "Congratulations, Alessio," it's hard to believe that he isn't a bit jealous of me.

"Thank you, Papa," I respond generously, bestowing a smile.

"Are you ready?"

"How I could I be anything else?" The reply comes easily. It's like I'm practicing the exact same interview I've rehearsed a thousand times. Why can't he talk about something different?

"I don't have a token for you," he admits with a sigh. "The Academy never sent word that you were this year's volunteer, and I live so far away . . . "

I take a long look at the man across from me, the one who broke and tried his best to mend himself and failed, and I don't have it in me to be angry with him. "That's okay, Papa."

He checks my face before reaching over to clasp my hand. "I'll be waiting for you to come home, Alessio. I love you, and your mother . . . she loved you too. I'm sure she still does."

"I can't wait to move you into the Victors Village," I say, and it's mostly just for the sake of it until I see the tentative grin that makes him look twenty years younger. It's what prompts me to add the next words. "I love you too, Papa."

He leaves pretty quickly after that, and I'm left thinking of him as I wait for my friends. Fortunately, it doesn't take them that long to show up.

Wallace Berling and Anastasia Lockett walk inside together. We know each other inside and out; Wallace and I were roommates at the DAEYD for eight years, while Anastasia has been my closest confidant for seven. After you've watched a guy train to murder twenty three other kids, there really isn't much to say to him when he leaves to put his skills to use.

Anastasia leans on me, and I put my arm around her shoulder. She's the only girl over seventeen at the DAEYD that I haven't . . . well, you know. At first, the fact that she was always around was like a challenge, an itch that I just had to scratch if were ever going to be friends. It was made worse by her obvious crush on me. But we got over those things together.

Wallace knew he wasn't going into the Games; he's from a Great House and although some of their children are still sent to train, they almost never volunteer. The only exceptions I can name are Alyson de Greene (Victor of the Sixtieth Hunger Games — an astonishingly small arena surrounding a lake swarming with mutts; it lasted fourteen hours, the shortest since the Fifth Games — with two kills, one indirect assist, and an act of sweetness that she was never forced to give up, even when she pushed her District partner into the lake), Gloss (Victor of the Sixty-Third Hunger Games — three enormous volcanoes bubbling with lava that turned to water from midnight to one o'clock; no night vision goggles were provided, and the price of one pair was equal to a High Senator's yearly salary — with four kills, two direct assists, and a penchant for torture), and his sister Cashmere (Victor of the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games — a swamp with mutts and quicksand around every turn — with two kills, one direct and one indirect assist, and a shock considering her brother had just won).

But he still nods at me. "I'll be rooting for you, of course. Shout to the mentors if you need anything, and I'll ask Papa to drum something up for you."

"Thanks, Wally." I beam at him.

Ana cuddles with my arm. She's uncharacteristically quiet. "Are you sure you'll be alright, Alessio?"

"What would you say if you were me, Ana?" I roll my eyes at her, smirking. She of all people should know that I'm completely prepared.

"Fair enough." She drops a kiss on the back of my hand, then gestures to Wallace. With one last grin at me, they leave together and my mentor team comes inside.

Grey Friars (Victor of the Forty-Fourth Hunger Games — a continuous storm of hail, snow, and ice — with five kills, two indirect assists, and a well known talent for slicing someone over twenty times and not cutting a single vital artery) is leading two other people. One of them is Gloss, the other I don't recognize, which means that he probably isn't involved with the DAEYD.

I stand as Grey enters. My feet are pressed together with weight on my toes, my hands are clasped behind my back, my chin is up.

"At ease," he barks, and I lower myself back into a chair. "Good morning, Alessio. I'm glad that everything is working smoothly. You've met Gloss, of course, and this is Blitz McCraggen of the Forty-Ninth."

I bow my head at Gloss, then shake Blitz's hand. "Pleasure."

"Very good. Although we will discuss strategies and specifics on the train, please tell us now if you have any concerns. Anything at all you want to talk about, now is the time. From the second we arrive in the Capitol to the day you're placed in the arena, there will be no time to relax."

Thank Snow for that.

"There's nothing, sir," I respond.

"Call me Grey, Alessio. You've earned that right."

"Thank you, Grey." His first name feels strange on my tongue.

"If you're sure you don't have any problems . . . " Grey pats me on the back and departs. Gloss and Blitz follow him outside. "The train leaves in five minutes!"

Everything is on my side. I couldn't be more excited for these Games to start.

* * *

 _I like this one better than the last one, so I hope you do too. Please, if you're reading this, do review it! Just a simple three-word comment makes my entire day. I'm not joking; don't feel pressured to answer the questions if you don't want to, but do let me know that you're reading and whether or not you like it! Please._

 _If you do feel like answering, however, here you are:_ _which one of these three was your favorite? Which do you think has the most chance of winning? Which is your least favorite? Which has the least chance of winning? Which character do you like the best and why? Which point of view was written the best? And, as usual, what do you think of the story as a whole?_

 _I do have an important note. A few concepts in these last chapters are borrowed from Oisin55's fanverse, such as the name of the DAEYD (though I am the proud coiner of Death Association for the Education of Young Destroyers), the Great Houses in One, and the platinum tags that District Two wears as tokens. I obviously won't be using all of his ideas for these things, but the simple concepts were so smart that I couldn't resist. Go check out his stories!_

 _Train scenes are coming up next, so we're moving steadily along. You should all be grateful; I haven't updated this quickly since I was twelve._

 _Joyana_


	9. Trains I

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
.: Trains I :.**

 **Ky Winters, Twelve / District Three Male**

My fingers are twitching. I smooth the fabric of my shirt, tucking it into my pants and pulling it out. I flip the collar, then undo and redo the three buttons over my chest. I run my palms over the pleats in my trousers, crumpling and then straightening the pockets. It's not that I have some sort of attention problem, but I'm used to holding something in my hands. In my house, we have scraps of electronics scattered over the floor, most in need of repair. Whenever I'm bored or anxious, I can just grab a drill and get to work. I don't have that luxury here.

The train is full of nice stuff, but I can see through most of it. There's a crack in corner of the window, so someone stronger than me could easily peel off the thin glass and make a run for it when we stop for gas. The picture of President Snow on the wall is crooked because it's covering up something else, but I don't want to examine it in case someone yells at me. My District partner is fidgeting. Every time she adjusts herself, the sofa she's sitting on rattles against the wooden floor. There's a screw loose, I think.

When she notices my gaze, her eyes lift to mine. "Hello there. You're Ky."

"Yes," I agree, because there's no point in stating her name if I already know it. I never say more than what's necessary.

"I'm Ro," she says anyway. "Ro Colbolt. I'm sixteen." She looks as though she wants to say something more, but then she swallows it down and looks at me expectantly. I don't know what she's waiting for.

" . . . Ky Winters. I'm twelve."

She nods thoughtfully. "Any tricks up your sleeve, Ky Winters? Something I should know about?"

No. But even if I did, does she really expect me to tell her? A twelve-year-old from Three has no shot at winning this thing anyway, not unless we're placed inside a giant motherboard. She can't possibly think I'll tell her my secrets on top of it. But instead of saying that out loud, I try to play the part of the pitiful little kid. "I'm not good at anything, Ro. Are you?"

She considers the question; I have a feeling that she was so focused on pulling all my skills out of me that she never thought about her own. "I . . . invent things," she finally says. "But everyone in Three can do that. I'm not special."

I shrug. "Well, this isn't Three. If you can make something in the arena, you'll do well. Remember our District's first Victor, in the Ninth Games? The one who built the device that manipulated the weather?"

"I can't do anything like that." Ro smiles, just a bit. "I think you can, though. I don't understand why you won't tell me the truth about what you're good at, Ky. We can be allies."

"How did you know I was lying?" The question tumbles out before I can close my mouth. No one ever catches me when I lie, and this was more fibbing by omission than anything.

"It's easy," she replies quietly. "I watched you when you decided what you were going to say, and then you picked the right expression for it. You have to be faster next time. Now, allies?"

"I'll think about it." I will. But I don't know how much good Ro could do me. Then again, will I really find anyone better? My District partner is pretty, I think, so that'll get us sponsors. And even if she's not quite as brilliant as me, at least we're on the same wavelength. It's not my worst bet, but I at least want to meet the other tributes first.

"Fair enough," Ro agrees, then winks. "But someone else might snatch me up."

"You can't be that eager to babysit me in the arena anyway," I respond.

She raises her eyebrows. "You can't call it that. We're a team, even if we don't ally, Ky. You'll always be my District partner."

Holy Snow, sentimental much? "How about this? We scout out possible allies on the first day of training, and if we don't find anyone, we'll join each other."

"That's a good deal." Ro stands up and joins me on the loveseat before I can kick up my feet. "Do you want a hug?"

At the moment, I'm not much more than numb. This whole thing is so ridiculously strange. At twelve, I had such a small chance of being Reaped — twenty-six thousandths of a percent, if my calculations were correct — that I hadn't even considered the possibility of actually becoming a tribute in the Hunger Games. (Which was dumb; a good scientist always acknowledges everything.) I can't shake the thought that, in ten seconds, I'll wake up in my bed at home. The whole thing is surreal.

No, it's not me who craves the feel of an embrace. It's Ro. And I don't particularly care to help her out right now. I move away. "Personal space issues. Sorry."

She drops her arms, appearing dejected. "That's fine, Ky." After a moment, when it becomes clear to her that I'm not planning on changing my mind, she gets up again. "I think I'm going to go find the mentors, if you want to come. The more strategy talk we can fit in, the better, right?"

That's something I can agree with. "Definitely. Do you know where they are?"

"Probably in their rooms. I don't know whether we're supposed to go to them, though . . . " She looks as though she might sit back down again.

More to prevent that than anything, I say, "They're supposed to be guiding us. They're not exactly going to kick us out, are they?"

"I guess not," she answers. "Thanks. Let's go."

I end up leading the way through the train cars. There's a carriage that resembles the family room at home, except it's about three times the size and everything is made of suede and silver. There's something that looks like an extremely opulent ballroom, complete with a glittering chandelier and carved wooden tables. I have no idea why they'd ever need something like that on the tribute train (let alone the one from Three, where I can assure you that no one knows how to dance) but maybe the richest Capitolites can pay exorbitant fees to ride on this during Hunger Games off-season.

We've passed another two compartments (one with a projector that I assume is a movie screen, though I've never seen one; another place made entirely of windows — I think we're in District One, judging by the mansions that look like palaces compared to the homes in my District) by the time we find the sleeping quarters. Our mentors are sitting in comfortable armchairs, nursing glasses of wine and chatting quietly.

"Hello," I say.

With a start, they both turn around. The man immediately extends a hand to me. His voice is very deep. "My name is Yohan Crabbe. It's nice to meet you, Ky."

I don't say anything. I don't yet know whether he also deserves the compliment. Then again, it's likely that I don't either.

When he realizes that I'm not speaking, he continues. "I'll have to sit with you to figure out your angle. Do you want to do that now?"

I nod, then quickly decide that I owe my District partner a bit more than I've been giving her. Next time I see her, it'll be in the Capitol spotlight. "I'll see you later, Ro. Good luck."

Ro grins, and it lights up her entire face. Her dark eyes sparkle. "Thank you, Ky. Best to you too, of course."

Something about her smile makes me want to return it. Instead, I settle for a phony bow and a wave farewell before I depart with my mentor.

* * *

 **Heidi Baecker, Sixteen / District Six Female**

The second I finish meeting everyone — my mentor, escort, and the plethora of staff all wanted to say hello (I'm not surprised; it's rare that people can resist me) — I fall into one of the plush chairs near the entrance. Instantly, I know I've returned home.

Not to the morphling-addicted shithouse that they call District Six. _Home_ , as in the Capitol of Panem.

No, I'm not technically a Capitolite anymore. We lost all our status when President Snow himself signed our deportation papers. But for all intents and purposes, this is exactly where I belong.

Not on the tribute train. Don't make me laugh. The fact that the Capitol had the fucking nerve to Reap my sister — of course she won (she's a Baecker!), but that isn't the point — and then _me_ . . . Haven't they done enough to us?

But in the spacious, clean rooms with the glossy furniture and the soft sofas . . . That's where I'm supposed to be. And I'm going to make the most of it while I'm here. I'll consume anything they offer me, wear the most luxurious clothes, and rub shoulders with the top Capitolites. It's kind of ironic, if you think about it. They kicked my family out, but now they're all going to want to know me. After all, I'm one of them.

I bet there are more than a few Capitol girls who will beg their parents to sponsor me. Out of sympathy, or interest, or plain relief that they're not in my situation (even though they could be; Panem knows how easy it is to not even realize that your family is doing something wrong).

Ida was planning to play that card when she was Reaped, but President Snow refused to allow anyone to sponsor her. She was supposed to die in the Bloodbath — the Gamemakers gave her an Eleven so as to make her a target — but she took down three Careers at once and then they laid off her. She was untouchable for the rest of the Games. I guess all that training Daddy insisted we have really paid off. Looking back on it, he must have known that he would get himself caught sooner or later.

I was taught by the same Victor as my siblings: Nisha Mathers, a girl from Seven who won the Thirty-Seventh Games. She was middle aged by the time my father hired her — under the table, of course — but just as strong as she was at fifteen. I know about knives, axes, hatchets, and I've practiced with a spear but I'm not as talented as my brother. He hasn't been Reaped, but at this rate it's clearly just a matter of time.

So I'm prepared, yes, but I won't win. They're not going to make the same mistake twice. They've almost certainly Reaped me to make a point to my family and any other traitors: you cross the Capitol, and your life is over. I might as well accept this, but it's so difficult to face certain death that my brain keeps skimming the survival strategies I learned from Nisha.

What I'm definitely praying for are allies that won't change their minds if the truth about me comes out. If someone says something during the interviews, which I'm sure they will, I still haven't decided whether I'm going to acknowledge or deny it. If I admit the truth, I'll probably earn myself a few sponsors, but it might anger President Snow and it will certainly turn some of my competitors against me. If I don't, then no one will know. But then I'll just be more cannon fodder. I've watched enough Games to know that outlying tributes aren't memorable, no matter what kind of angles they play. In the Sixty-Second Games, everybody claimed that they just _knew_ the District Eight girl was going to win, but not one person had cheered during her interview. It's all bullshit.

Across from me, my District partner keeps reaching into his pocket. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if he had a switchblade or bomb in there. Everyone in Six carries some sort of weapon. Even Daddy has to keep a pistol in his bag; he'd probably be shot otherwise. Six hates the Capitol the most. Trust me on this.

Now he's staring at me. He kind of looks like he wants to say something, but he's keeping his mouth shut, which is much more than most of the people in his District can do.

Okay, so he's kind of cute. He's got these metallic blue-green eyes and just _look_ at that jawline. (So I sound like our escort. Sue me.) Maybe I'll be the one to speak.

No! What am I _thinking_? I can't get attached to him. I'm not even sure I remember his name, and anyway we're both going to be dead in a matter of days. The only thing I need to be focused on is the slim chance of saving my own ass, not sleeping with this kid.

Except now his lips are moving. I shake myself and tune back in.

"Lamynt," he's saying quickly. "You're looking scared, so I figured I'd assure you that I left my gun in the Justice Building."

I told you so.

"You're the Capitol girl, aren't you?" he continues. "Sucks that they Reaped you."

"I wouldn't be this angry if it were just me," I respond, but that's probably a crock of shit. "They got my sister too. Ida."

"Ida Althaus?" he asks, his eyes wide. "She won a couple years ago, right? She doesn't have the same last name as you."

"She took Mommy's," I explain. "It was a . . . a fad in the Capitol for a few months, to give your kid their mother's surname. It had worn off by the time my brother was born, but Ida was stuck with it."

He nods thoughtfully. "Do you ever see her anymore?"

For a second, I think he means Mommy, but I recognize that there's no way he could know about that. About the way the Peacekeepers will take her for weeks or even months at a time and do things that I don't want to talk about. Ever.

"Ida?" I sigh. "She lives in the Capitol, but I'm not sure what kinds of stuff she does there. I'm sure President Snow's banned her from all the good clubs and restaurants."

"Still better than anything she'd get in Six," he spits.

"Can't argue with you there, buddy."

For a second, he looks like he wants to slap me, but then he chills out and relaxes again. "Six is a fucking hellhole. I kind of always wanted to go to school and get a job that would take me somewhere else, and lo and behold. Here I am." His laugh is bitterer than my thoughts.

I look around the compartment again. For someone like my partner, who has never been outside of their District, seeing this kind of glamour for the first and last time right on the verge of being finished with their Reapings . . . Yeah, I can get why that sucks. It's bad for me too, but at least I'm not acclimating to all this for the first time like the other tributes.

Maybe there's my advantage: I know how the Capitol works. I'm totally aware of all the shit that goes down here, more so than any of my opponents. No matter what they've been told, I have the experience. Now I just have to figure out how to make it useful.

* * *

 **Constantine Cass, Eighteen / District Two Male**

I'm pretty sure Aria Black had her angle picked out since her first year at the Institute. There are a lot of names for it: some are nice enough to simply refer to her as _seductive_ , while others prefer _lethal_ _bitch_ or _the whore that kills_. Me and my guys, we call girls like her _deadly sluts_.

They're the ones that have everything going for them: they're gorgeous through and through, from their long hair to their gleaming eyes to their unblemished skin to their narrow waist to their ass to their legs that stretch from Two to the Capitol. And they'll give it away whenever and to whomever they please. But it's not only that. They're also smart and cunning and prepared. They've been taught to fight with the rest of us, and they're usually at the top of their class. (I know Aria was.) Basically, they're a sponsor's dream. I've already pegged her as my main opponent in these Games. She's the one to watch.

Me? I'm supposed to be independent, to make it clear that I can do this with or without allies, with or without sponsor help, and with or without weapons and supplies and water.

Which is bullshit, by the way. If I try to act like I don't want sponsors, then I won't get any and I'll die. No one's _truly_ the maverick in the Hunger Games. Anyone with a lick of sense can see that.

Aria's next to me, already trying to curl against my shoulder and draw out my weaknesses. Her right breast is pressed against my upper arm, and her dark curls tickle my neck. I'm not sure whether she's testing me or if she actually thinks I'm dumb enough to fall for her just because she's been taught how to make a guy hard.

"So, Constantine, tell me about your _weapon_."

This has got to be a fucking joke. She sounds like one of those bimbos from One.

"Is it _long_?"

"Aria. Shut up."

My District partner bats her eyelashes at me. "Come _on,_ Constantine. You don't want to die a virgin, do you?"

Well, two can play at this game. I sling an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer to me. "Me, a virgin? Please."

She smirks. In slow motion — gauging my reaction, I suppose — she leans back on the couch, sliding her feet under my thighs so as to force me to stand up. "Show me, if you think you know so much."

Leaning over, I press Aria's wrists above her head, lowering my mouth to her ear. "I could kill you right here, before we even go into the arena. Is that something you want, darling?"

She squirms and grimaces. "Don't call me that, douche bag."

I move onto her shins, effectively pinning her down. She's wearing some sort of flimsy maroon dress, which makes it all a bit too easy. "What are you thinking, _darling_? Ready?"

"Don't _call_ me that!" Way too late, I realize that she's serious. She slides her arms out from my grip, kicks me, and rolls off the sofa. In a single move, she bounds to her feet, bends over me, and very deliberately places her fingers on my carotid artery. The second she's in control, her entire body relaxes. "What are _you_ thinking _now_ , douche bag?" I try to bend my knee so I can jab her in the stomach, but she sees it and straddles my thighs immediately. Her voice is silky. "Tell me what you want, Constantine."

It's an interesting question. I definitely don't want her to get off of me, that's for sure. I don't have some kind of pathological need to be in control, but maybe she doesn't either. Maybe this entire thing is a gigantic test to find out whether I can be bossed around and taken advantage of. For some reason, I don't want Aria Black thinking I'm a pushover. I say, quietly, "Let go of me."

To my utter shock, she slides to the floor and winks. "Whatever you say."

"Tell me why you fought me just now, darling."

"I told you. Don't call me darling."

"What about _slut_ , or _whore_ , or _bitch_?"

She shrugs. There's a strange light in her eyes; I'm not sure what it means. "Go for it, if you're brave enough. I dare you."

"Fine, bitch." The word is strange on my tongue. Yeah, I joke around with my friends, but I don't make a habit of calling girls names. Especially the chicks at the Institute, who'll kill you as soon as look at you. But Aria is clearly different.

" _There_ you go. What else can you do?"

If I had an axe, I could chop her into pieces before she blinked. If this were the Bloodbath, and she was on her knees in front of me, I wouldn't hesitate to kill her. But right now . . .

"Why don't you just tell me what you want, Aria?"

She actually laughs. "You'd probably have a heart attack, douche bag."

"Try me."

"Experiment a bit first." That little smile is back.

"You know what? Fine." I force her down, back against the sofa. I rip the straps of that ridiculous dress off her shoulders, then twist her hair into my fist. "This is what you like, isn't it?"

"Right in one. Shocker, considering you seem like a big dumb brute at the Institute."

This time, I move before she can make a face at me. The next thing either of us knows, she's on her back and I'm on top of her. Once again, her wrists are above her head and her legs are spread. "I bet you do this for every guy you come across, slut."

Aria giggles. "Some of the girls, too."

I halt in my tracks. That's the same thing my ex-girlfriend did: whore around with literally anyone she felt like, regardless of gender or anything else. All the anger that I never used on Atalasa spills into my District partner, and I slap her hard. "Shut the fuck up, Aria."

She does, immediately.

It only takes a second more for me to regret absolutely everything that happened in the last fifteen minutes. I extend a hand to the girl on the floor. She looks just as confused as I'm feeling, but she allows me to pull her to her feet.

"I'm so sorry, Aria. I didn't mean to hit you or hurt you. I want us to respect each other as District partners, and we can't do this ever again. Hook up with anyone you want, but not me. I can't."

She's solemn as she nods. "That's fair. I should have known I would never get through to you anyway."

"I don't know; I think you got through a bit too much."

She snickers and places a hand on my shoulder. There's still a red mark on her cheek. "We're a team, Constantine, even if the alliance breaks. If you can handle me, you'll be fine with anything."

Well, at least something came of all that. I've officially earned the support of the strongest tribute in the pool. "Same here, Aria."

She pulls me into an awkward hug, gently patting me on the back. Her voice is muffled as she proclaims, "We've got this. Victory for District Two, yeah?"

Automatically, I recite the mantra. (Morning drills are difficult to get out of your head.) "Honor, strength, and justice. Thanks be unto the Capitol."

"We're not in the Institute anymore, douche bag."

"Oh, leave me alone, darling."

Her fists ball up and I almost believe she's going to punch me. But then she bursts into laughter. "I'm glad you were the one who volunteered, Constantine."

"Yeah? Well, I'm damn happy you're my partner."

* * *

 _I'm so sorry for not updating for so long! I had a ton of drama and I only got back into the swing of things a couple of days ago. I'll try to make updates more regular from now on, though._

 _But another reason that the update took a bit longer is that I've been steadily losing reviews. Even though the amount of readers stays pretty constant, comments go down every chapter. Please, I'm begging you to tell me what you think. It doesn't take a lot of time at all and it means so much._

 _To that end, I'd like to make a rule. Or at least a guideline. If you have a character in this story, you need to review almost every chapter. I've got to know what you're thinking about the path the story's taking, what you want for your character, what you think of the other tributes, and any predictions you have. It keeps me thinking and writing, and I have to have that motivation._

 _I know you all care about the story, and I also know that everyone has a life and is busy. But if we could get to 150 reviews this chapter, it would mean so much to me. Please, even a few words would just make me so happy!_

 _If you do want to give me an in-depth review, questions are these:_ _which one of these three was your favorite? Which do you think has the most chance of winning? Which is your least favorite? Which has the least chance of winning? Which character do you like the best and why? Which point of view was written the best? And, as usual, what do you think of the story as a whole?_

 _Joyana_


	10. Trains II

**The Fight Is In Your Blood  
.: Trains II :.**

 **Maeve Everts, Fourteen / District Eleven Female**

Everything in District Eleven is covered in a permanent coat of soil and grime, but it surprises me that the tribute train is the same. Maybe the inside is clean, but I wouldn't know. Because right now, our little group — which consists of our sweet escort, my noble District partner, the two mentors, and assorted other security forces, staff, and servants — is clustered on the platform. Apparently there was a bomb threat, so they've had Peacekeepers combing the vehicle for the past ninety minutes. That's right: this is important enough that they're willing to risk trained young men and women over their endless supply of Avoxes.

Three different people have already shot at us as we stood here. Two were immediately apprehended by the bodyguards and beaten to death. The other fired off two bullets, (barely) missed Ms. Seeder Cotts, and fled. A few Peacekeepers were dispatched, but they haven't yet returned to report any news. I'm not sure whether I hope he lives: on one hand, he's clearly very brave and determined, and I can respect that. On the other, he could have killed my mentor. There isn't another female; Juno Allanard passed seven years ago. I would have been all alone, and I can't forgive that. And I don't really understand what he was trying to accomplish anyway. Does he _want_ me to die?

Whenever the younger children complain about our District, the grandparents will firmly admonish them. _Would you like to live in Six instead?_ they ask sternly. But at least Six is honest about what happens there; their drug rings and mass murders are no secret, even to those who aren't supposed to know anything, like us.

But most of Eleven hides behind a guise of happiness. Maybe it's to make up for our rebel factions, which are the most active out of any of the Districts. Or perhaps no one wants to bring down the wrath of the Peacekeepers (or worse, the Capitol). But either way, we put on smiles and tell our families not to worry; it'll all be okay.

Now that I'm a tribute, it's a lot easier to see through all of it.

It's not _okay_. It'll _never_ be okay.

I'm not really in the habit of deluding myself. There's no chance I'll win. A fourteen-year-old underweight girl from Eleven has no shot, and I don't think I'm capable of pulling a Seeder. (That's code for entering the arena like a dead woman walking, then proceeding to hunt down and murder five people, then shoving the last remaining Career straight into the path of oncoming mutts.) Plus, my mentor was three years older than me and discovered she had more talent with a scythe than I ever will.

But if I somehow manage to emerge victorious, I know what I'll do. I'll smile beautifully, wear the nicest clothes, and learn the right secrets. And then I'll tear down the Capitol from the inside out. Snow knows they deserve it. Our President most of all.

I'm just becoming aware of how awful I sound when the shrill train whistle pierces the air. Ms. Cotts's hand closes over my wrist, and she pulls me backwards. I stumble as she drags me away, but then regain my footing and turn to follow her.

"This way, Maeve!" she shouts, dashing ahead. For an older woman — I think she's around fifty-five, and people are considered lucky to live to their mid forties in District Eleven (just another example of how awfully we're treated, when we're taught that the average life expectancy in the Capitol is eighty-nine) — she's made a great effort to keep herself healthy.

I glance over my shoulder. My District partner is at least eight yards behind me, but that's just a rough estimate. His mentor, Mr. Redmark Wolve, is a couple of feet in front of him. Our escort has had the good sense to slip off her heels as she sprints, and trailing her are the rest of our team (for lack of a better word; I only consider a couple of them to truly be allies).

Ms. Cotts whips around a tree, ducking into the woods just as we hear the first explosion. We're not that far away, and from my hiding spot, I can see debris and shrapnel flying. Even though I detest them and everything they stand for, I can't help wondering how many Peacekeepers just died. The thought tugs on my heartstrings.

And I really hoped that I might win the Hunger Games. What a joke.

My mentor tugs me back down and lowers her mouth to my ear. "Strategic thinking starts right now, Maeve. Tell me how that bomb got there, and then tell me why."

As fast as I can, I try to connect the pieces. "The train was in the Capitol just last evening, and it's been moving since then. There's no way anyone could have sneaked weapons on there unless it was a worker. But aren't Avoxes screened constantly?"

Ms. Cotts nods. "Good. Continue."

"There were definitely a few Peacekeepers on there, and they have access to lots of dangerous stuff. But they don't have motives unless they're involved in a rebellion, which is possible . . . " I glance at the woman next to me to see if I'm on the right track.

She considers my words. "It's a possibility, yes, but not the most likely one. Keep going."

"The train's been in District Eleven since just before the Reaping, right? I saw it from the inn we were staying in, because we don't live in this area. I was selected for the preliminary Reapings."

"Alright." She's a very no-nonsense person.

"And it couldn't have been unguarded; they wouldn't just do that. It's too easy."

"No," Ms. Cotts agrees evenly. "They wouldn't. So . . . "

I focus on organizing my words before they start spilling out. I'm used to thinking on my own, not for somebody else, and definitely not for the Victor of the Thirty-First Hunger Games. "But somebody was serious enough to tell the Peacekeepers here about a bomb threat, even though they could have gotten killed just for knowing about it, even if they did report it. No one would have been dumb enough to do that unless there really was danger, and they had proof that they hadn't caused it. So that means the bomb had already been planted."

She is completely passive, but I don't know whether that means I'm totally wrong or she wants me to keep talking. I decide on the latter. "But the only person who could have already put it there is a Peacekeeper, so someone has to be involved with the rebels, right?" I start babbling. I'm so excited. How could I have missed it? "Right? And this Peacekeeper's going to take me out of the Games, Ms. Cotts! That's what you wanted me to figure out! I'm going to be saved! The rebellion is starting!"

Finally my mentor moves. Taking me by the shoulders, she smiles sadly. "No, Maeve, I'm sorry. That wasn't the answer."

I can feel myself deflating. My voice is so soft. "What?"

"Start from the message and go the other direction, darling. If we know the bomb wasn't there before, when could it have been placed?"

And then I figure out the real truth. "That's why all those people were shooting," I say. "It isn't the rebels in Eleven. Well, it was, but it wasn't normal. While all those Peacekeepers were diverted, someone slipped the bomb onto the train. But how could they have done that? There were still too many guards around. They would have been seen."

"How would you have done it?" she asks.

I think about it for a second. "Gone around to the other side," I reply. "Climbed up the ladder and peeked into one of the compartments. When no one was in there, drop it and run. There're all those fields over there; they could easily hide someone who isn't enormously tall. And everyone who lives here can navigate through the wheat."

"Very good. So why the bomb threat? Why not just plant it and wait?"

The answer comes to me in a burst of clarity. "They wanted as many Peacekeepers as possible to be on or near the train. The warning ensured that extra guards would be there, and they would all be within range. So when it detonated, they all died."

Her smile is so warm. " _Very_ good, Maeve. You'll do well in the arena, but we'll have to find you allies who can fight. Unless you've got more going for you than just that incredible brain."

"Sorry, ma'am," I respond. "I don't even work in the fields, so I can't do any of that either."

"You'll learn something," she promises. "You have three days in training. Some Districts waste those, but Eleven knows how to work hard."

I can do that. The problem is that I'm used to focusing my energies on school, not on learning which weapon is most useful when hacking off someone's head.

"The new train has arrived!" someone hollers. "Code one-zero-three-five-eight, safe!"

Warily, I move to my feet. Ms. Cotts pulls me back down.

"Wait," she hisses. "That could still be a rebel. We need the signal." She's counting something under her breath, but I don't ask what.

Suddenly a high pitched scream erupts.

"Right," my mentor declares matter-of-factly. "It's clear." She waves, and everyone hiding in bushes or concealed by trees comes into into view.

"With all due respect, Ms. Cotts," my District Partner murmurs, "did you just hear that shout? Are you sure we're okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Hunsaven," she proclaims firmly. "That's the sign. Now, it's best to move quickly. We're hours late to the Capitol; we'll be lucky if there are still spectators left by the time we arrive."

Does she really think it's _good_ to be scrutinized by throngs of inhuman succubi? I almost voice the question, but somehow I don't think I want to hear the answer.

* * *

 **Bianca Saunders, Fifteen / District Nine Female**

I'm sitting pretty, the way Mum's always tried to teach me. There's not a lot of point to courtesy in Nine, but she'd clasp my hand and whisper, "Just in case you move onto bigger and better things, love."

I don't think this is what she had in mind.

But I still cross my legs at the knee, fold my hands over my lap, keep my back straight, and hold my head up high. I'm not the most beautiful girl around — my smile especially is too crooked, my teeth too wide, my forehead enormous — but my District partner is watching me anyway. He's not being obvious, but he's kind of jumpy, like maybe he wants to walk over here and say hello.

I wouldn't mind that, but I don't want him getting ideas either. He's not my type, and I wouldn't ever want to begin a relationship with another tribute anyway. Some people do that, and I can't understand why. Even if you happen to come out alive, then the person you're 'dating' obviously won't, so what are you achieving?

"I'm lesbian," I say out loud.

He shrugs. "Hi lesbian, I'm Milo Fae."

" _Excuse_ me?"

This time, he laughs. "I'm not discriminating against you, trust me. I've gone out with lads before. It was just prime time for a joke. People are way too serious about all this, don't you think?"

"Considering twenty-three of us are going off to our deaths, I believe _you_ aren't serious _enough_."

"Are you _giving up_ , Bianca?"

"How do you know my name?"

"We were at the same Reapings, if you don't recall." He smiles at me, moves closer. "Look, I'm kidding. Relax a bit and you'll feel better."

He's right. I'm usually not this tense, and this is certainly the worst I've ever felt in my life. I take a few cleansing breaths, trying to absorb the clean air and the silence that's so rare in District Nine. Back home, the grain mills are churning constantly; there's not one moment of peace.

That's not true.

I found tranquility with my girlfriend. Sara Davel, the most beautiful person I've ever met. It isn't that she's gorgeous — she has the same dark hair and freckles as everyone else in our District, and her eyes are nothing special. But to me . . . she's everything I don't have in my family. She is my best friend, my sister, and the girl I love. She was mine for almost exactly nine months.

And now I'll leave and die and she'll find someone else, a woman who understands her more than even I do, who laughs at her sense of humor instead of changing the subject, who doesn't insist on eating only fruit and vegetables. Someone who fits with her hand-in-hand, instead of hand-in-glove like they say about us.

"Are you okay?" Milo wants to know. His eyes are a bit sad, like he knows what I'm thinking and is already figuring out a way to console me.

"I don't think so. No." There isn't any point in lying about it. Why be polite if it just doesn't matter?

"I'm sorry." He rests his cheek on my shoulder and wraps his arms around me. Others would see it as romantic, but in actuality it's a bit annoying and very uncomfortable.

"Can you please not?" I elbow him off me, and he collapses onto a chair. "I know you mean well, Milo. But I really just need to be alone right now. I'm going to find some food. Don't follow me. Please."

I stand, and without looking back, cross a few compartments in order to discover the dining car.

The first thing I notice is a chocolate fountain in the center of the room. Scattered on adjacent platters are various fruits and some things that look like pretzels, but not the whole-wheat ones in Nine. Then there's a leveled shelf, upon which bottles of alcohol are placed. I can spot beer and vodka, but everything else is foreign. I wonder what a taste of it would feel like.

The long table is made of glossy wood, and everything shines. There is so much crystal that I'm surprised it doesn't blind me. I'm inching towards a glass vase holding four beautiful white roses when the door slides open behind me. I turn, fully prepared to curtsy towards my mentor, but there stands Milo Fae.

"I told you not to come with me!" I sound much angrier than I feel, since I'm really not that mad at my District partner. How can I find it in myself to hate a boy who's been sentenced to death? But mother of Snow, he's obnoxious.

He jumps a bit. "I'm sorry, Bianca. I didn't . . . "

I can already tell that he's one of _those_ : the kids who don't have to try, who are automatically inclusive and charismatic and incredibly extroverted. He isn't used to being turned down or tossed away.

And what kind of person am I to introduce him to those feelings? I'm supposed to be the sweet girl, not a b-word. Just because I'm stressed doesn't give me license to say those awful things, and if I don't apologize it's going to make me doubly horrible.

I clamp down on my tongue to avoid saying something else I don't mean. "No, I apologize. I was rude to you and you didn't deserve it. I don't understand why you aren't having a terrible time right now, but I am. And I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"No," he agrees. "You shouldn't have."

My blood boils under my skin. Why does he need to rub it in?

But then Milo's grimace splits into a grin. "I'm _joking_. Come on, taste one of these strawberries with me. They look perfect." And with that, he saunters over to the fountain and casually dips the fruit in. Then he pops it in his mouth. "Mmm. Bianca, these are fantastic."

I really can't help but laugh. I pick up a handful of raspberries and dunk them one at a time, then place them on my tongue. The sharp tang mixed with the sweetness is heavenly, and I take another five even as I'm swallowing the second. "You're right."

"I usually am."

I punch him lightly on the shoulder. "Oh, knock it off."

His smile is affectionate, as though he cares about me even though we've only been acquainted for a number of hours. Then again, I guess the situation is an important variable. When there's only one other person from your District who'll be thrown into the arena of death with you, there probably tends to be a bond.

He's no Sara, but my liking for him is only growing.

"Don't let anyone see you hitting me," he teases. "They'll probably put you in isolation."

"Isn't it ridiculous that we have to be all civilized right up until they force us to start murdering each other?"

He stares at me for a moment. "You do know I'll never kill you, Bianca, right?"

"That's not something I assumed, no."

Milo actually seems hurt. "I could never hurt my District partner! Especially not you. I'm not saying we have to be allies . . . or even that we should be. But if we come across each other, know that I'm not going to lay a finger on you."

Instantly, I promise the same thing. But mine isn't personal. I won't even eat an animal that's already long dead. There's no way in Panem that I'd ever harm another living person.

He exhales. "Well, now that that's out of the way, we'd better start eating some real food. You could do to get some meat on your bones if you want to survive."

That's impossible, but I don't say so. "It can't hurt," I answer instead. Unlike the rest of this month, which will stretch out painfully until the very last second of my life.

Milo beams at me. "Try this," he says, grabbing a cup from the counter. He dips it into the liquid and drinks it down in one gulp.

I can feel my eyes widening. "Pass me one." He complies, and I have my very first taste of pure unadulterated chocolate. "That's . . . that's the best thing I've ever eaten."

"Technically, I think you drank it."

It's coating my tongue, sticky and a bit hindering but oh so sweet. "Either way, we'd better not use up all of it now."

"They'll have it refilled."

"Yeah, and we'll be the pigs who didn't leave any for anyone else. We'll probably be the only tributes in the history of the Hunger Games who finished the entire chocolate fountain."

He laughs. "Maybe we should go ask our mentors if they want to share." He seems excited at the prospect of inviting more people to join our little party, but I'm not into it. I'm enjoying getting to know my partner, and I don't need the pressure of socializing with everyone.

I groan. "If we must."

"Don't you want to meet them?" he asks, confused. "You should get comfortable with yours; she'll be really important to you."

That's true. And Mariah Green is supposed to be such a kind soul. She's one of those Victors who won by default — the only way I myself can possibly succeed in the arena — so her reputation was never marred. I'm not sure how much experience she has, but I'm not expecting her to coddle me anyway. I know I can't be a Victor.

"Let's go, then." Milo flashes me a smile and leads me out of the dining quarters, towards the next step of our Capitol journey.

Okay, that was too sentimental for me. Towards the next step of our imminent demise is more like it.

* * *

 **Giovani Blockett, Seventeen / District Eight Male**

My District partner is scared of me, and rightfully so.

Her name is Esther Crates-Trace. She's seventeen. She has blondish hair and kohl-lined eyes and very smooth skin. From what I could tell, she's got two sisters and a mother. There was another man, who may have been her Da, sobbing somewhere in the back of the crowd.

But that's all I have. I don't know anything about her skills, strengths, or weaknesses. I have not the faintest clue about the correct way to target her in the arena. And she doesn't look to be in the mood to talk.

I wish I was a Career. Ninety-nine percent of them have trained with the other person from their District since they first came of Reaping age, so they're aware of everything about each other. That puts me at a major disadvantage, especially since I plan on joining their pack. I have skills — lots — but no information. And all the Careers are handy with a weapon; I'm not going to pretend that they need a District Eight boy to lug around. I need to provide something special, but they have everything.

And unless they accept me during training, I'm going to have to purposely suck in my private session. Otherwise I'll be a major target, and it doesn't matter how good I am. Being ganged up on by six Careers is not a situation that will allow survival. The whole thought angers me; it's not my style to play dumb, but I won't have a choice. I hate feeling out of control like this.

So the only viable solution is to get with the pack as early as humanly possible, which means having something they desperately need. So the first day, I'll notice where their weak spots are and pray that I can fill them. On the second, I'll demonstrate that skill, a bit ostentatiously but not obnoxiously enough so as to seem arrogant. They'll see me immediately — they're trained to — even if they don't comment right away. They'll keep track as they go about their day, and at the end they'll come over, meet me, and try to be intimidating. If they can see I won't be bullied, or if I get past it with poise, I'll be in. On the third, I can walk around with them, laughing at the other tributes' shocked faces. It'll feel good watching them shy away from me.

I'm so completely caught up in my daydream (back to back with the District Two boy, who is expertly twirling an axe while I cut through two of the cannon fodder with my arakh) that I barely notice my partner clearing her throat. She has to cough twice more before I snap out of my reverie and turn slowly to face her.

"Can I help you, Miss Trace?" I know that her surname is hyphenated, but I'm interested in seeing whether she corrects me. I'm not sure what either response will tell me about her, but at least it's information that I can store away for later.

"It's _Crates-Trace_ , actually." She seems a bit annoyed, but not as though she's taking offense; a smile is spreading across her pale face.

I nod slowly. "That's very interesting, Miss Crates-Trace. Not a lot of people in Eight can say they have two last names."

She shrugs delicately. "I guess you can call me unique, then."

"Would you be interested in telling me just why you're so special?"

She purses her lips, then exhales, as though smoking one of the cigars that are plentiful in Eight. I wouldn't have pegged her as the type, but then again, it's so easy to smuggle them from Three that practically everyone takes advantage of the drug. "My parents were never married. So I took his name since he's my Da, but my Ma raised me."

"Peacekeeper?" I ask casually. Lately there's been an enormous increase in Peacekeepers who take advantage of women and leave them with too many children and not enough money to raise them, leading the poor mothers to sell themselves all over again. Some of the more radical rebels believe that President Snow is behind it, trying to put the District people in their place. Personally, I doubt it. He doesn't concern himself with our petty affairs.

She rolls her eyes. "No."

"Are you sure?"

She's glaring at me now; I need to back off if I want to keep her talking. " _Yes._ His name is Tybalt Trace, and he's a manager at the factory on the outskirts of the south Clear. Would you like some more information?"

 _Yes._ "I'm glad you shared with me, Miss Crates-Trace. I'd tell you about my family, if I thought you were at all interested."

She leans forwards. I focus on her lips as she speaks; they are an unnatural bright pink, a gloss clearly mixed by an inexperienced herbalist. "As a matter of fact, I am, Mister Blockett."

I'm speaking before I even realize it. Usually I'm more cautious about sharing my story with the street's flotsam and jetsam, but it can't hurt. Unless my dear partner has an ace up her sleeve, she'll be dead before the end of the Bloodbath.

"My Ma's dead. She passed in the Games, killed by the District Seven boy. I don't remember her; it happened only a few weeks after I was born." She looks like she's about to sympathize with me, so I quickly move on. "My brother lost his leg; remember when the fever spread? He had such a bad infection that a doctor was forced to amputate, which probably only made it worse. But he's alive, with Snow's grace. My Da, he works . . . with the Peacekeepers. Organization and such. He's not from Two or the Capitol, but he . . . helps them out."

"That's disgusting."

"Don't say that about him again, Miss Crates-Trace, or you won't live very long to regret it."

"I won't win the Games anyway, Mister Blockett. I'll speak my mind if I want to."

Deep down, I'm sure she's sweet and friendly and not a threat. She's only putting on a show because she thinks I'm doing the same thing. She doesn't know yet that every word coming out of my mouth is the truth.

"Tell me, Miss Crates-Trace, why are you so certain of your death?"

She's appalled. "If you think I'm going to murder innocent twelve-year-olds in this arena, you're absolutely crazy."

"But you'd rather die?" That's not something I can understand. I can see her using this angle to acquire soft-hearted sponsors or make it seem as though she has a disadvantage. But she's not accomplishing anything by saying it to me, so clearly she means it. It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.

"Than kill? Maybe if everyone was an adult, it would be better. But striking down tiny children in cold blood . . . Why would I want to be alive after I've done that?" She honestly looks confused. "How would _you_?"

"Because it's better than being dead?" I shrug. "It's not like I volunteered, Miss Crates-Trace." I don't add that I'd been planning on doing exactly that next year, during my last Reaping. After all, I'm one of the only children in District Eight who can say they've been trained by a Victor. It would be plain wrong not to volunteer when I have such a good chance of winning. "We don't have a choice. If we want to survive, then the rest of the tributes can't. And if that involves killing a couple of little kids, then there you are."

"You could _live_ with yourself?" Her expression is completely disgusted. The corner of her lip twists up in disbelief.

This little brat is going to be my first kill, whether or not I join the Career pack. I will sprint through the Bloodbath if it means I can catch up to her and destroy her for talking to me this way.

"I will do anything it takes, and I'll do it happily," I spit. "Your noble plans won't get you anywhere when your insides are scattered all over the floor of the arena. Do you think they're going to remember you as the nice girl who wouldn't harm a fly? No, you'll go down as Hunger Games death number one thousand five hundred eighty eight."

"My family will mourn me, and so will my friends and so will the entire District. You will be _hated_. You know nothing, Mister Blockett."

"Hated, for bringing Parcel Day to our home? Hated, for doing what I had to do to survive? Hated, for supporting my allies and allowing them quick deaths? Hated, for making a good impression on the Capitol on behalf of our District?" They _will_ hate me if I become a Career, but that's unimportant. "You don't know what you're talking about, Miss Crates-Trace."

Her eyes glint. "I'll make you a bet, Mister Blockett. Maybe I won't be alive to cash in, but you'll think of me when you return to Eight and they all turn their backs. Maybe you'll become the Capitol's pet, and it's possible you won't care. But I think you will."

I'm clenching my hands into fists, fully prepared to knock her off her chair and smash her into a pulp, when it occurs to me. She just implied that I would be a Victor of the Hunger Games.

* * *

 _I don't love this chapter, but I definitely owed you all one, so it's a bit longer than the other pre-Capitol chapters. I hope you enjoy it, and I really hope you like getting to know all the characters. And as usual, tell me if there's something I can improve on!_

 _I still appreciate all of your reviews so much, by the way. Thank you for making 153 last chapter! Keep it up, guys! Even a tiny little review means a lot, and of course a longer one is always fantastic. Here are the questions, if you feel like answering:_ _which one of these three was your favorite? Which do you think has the most chance of winning? Which is your least favorite? Which has the least chance of winning? Which character do you like the best and why? Which point of view was written the best? And, as usual, what do you think of the story as a whole?_

 _And, if you're so inclined, do take a moment to pray for all the victims of the terrorist attacks around the world._

 _Joyana_


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